


fall into you

by 1inhardt



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Overthinking, Pining, Pizza, Sugar Daddy, bro idk what to tag this, jk but also not jk, lmao whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24533842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1inhardt/pseuds/1inhardt
Summary: "Pain is what Akaashi feels in this moment, because what is he doing in a pizza shop on a Wednesday night in his rumpled work clothes? And there Bokuto is, smiling as big as Akaashi remembers, so comfortable in his demeanor, the pizza box like a natural extension of his arm. "akaashi keiji, a most earnest budgeter, suddenly cannot budget anymoreaka akaashi spends all his money on pizza boy bokuto
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 89
Kudos: 147





	1. on a rainy saturday evening

**Author's Note:**

> yeah........do with this what you will. if you find it worth your time maybe leave a comment or some kudos or something? or talk to me on twt @1inhardt. thanks for reading!

It begins on an evening when Akaashi’s friends come over. Uninvited, of course, but who is Akaashi to refuse the few people who find him worth their time. Though he can’t say he likes the incessant knocking at the door, or the attempts to twist the doorknob, as if Akaashi would ever leave it unlocked. But there’s a pleasantness that comes with the cacophony of Kuroo and Oikawa and Kozume walking through the foyer of Akaashi’s penthouse, making more noise than Akaashi could produce in a lifetime. 

“It’s late,” Akaashi says, though it isn’t. 

“Aw, come on, Akaashi,” Kuroo says, “you weren’t planning on sleeping now, were you?” 

“I would have let you know we were coming,” Kozume says, plopping down on the couch, “but Kuroo stole my phone before I could.” 

“A surprise!” Oikawa says. “We were going for a surprise. Surprise! Are you surprised?” 

“Would anybody like something to drink?” Akaashi asks, unperturbed, because this is how it always is. Silent Saturday nights are for children with early bedtimes and retired adults, and Akaashi, unfortunately, is neither of those. 

“If you have anything besides water, then sure,” Kuroo says, and Akaashi pours one glass of water and brings it to Kozume, the only one receptive to his hospitality. 

“You got anything to eat, Aka-chan?” Oikawa asks, sprawling out next to Kozume, grabbing the TV remote to flip through channels aimlessly. An image repeated every weekend, because apparently Akaashi’s apartment is the most fun to hang out at, though everyone always tells him he should get a video game console and some beer to liven up the place. 

“It’s eight at night,” Akaashi says. He takes a barstool from the island in his kitchen, brings it into the living room and settles onto it across from Kuroo, who has taken it upon himself to lie down on the floor. 

“There’s this new pizza place nearby,” Kozume says, scrolling through his phone. “They’re having some sort of grand opening sale with free delivery.” 

“Excellent,” Kuroo says. “Our Kozume, always one step ahead of us.” 

“I already ate,” Akaashi says.

“Microwaved box dinners don’t count,” Oikawa says with a waggle of his finger. 

“Like pizza’s any better.”

“Sure it is! Look,” Kuroo says, scooting his way toward Kozume to look at the menu on his phone screen, “we can get pizza with spinach on it, or bell peppers, and add something like sausage for protein, or—ohoho, is that sweet potato pizza? Sick, we’re getting that.” 

“I want pepperoni,” Oikawa says, and Kozume places the order in accordance with their requests, because arguing with hungry and rowdy men is pointless. 

Akaashi can’t get mad at his friends, because they’re just that: his friends, understanding of his boundaries, which they like to trample on. Though they will always clean up after themselves before leaving, and they know better than to stay the night on Akaashi’s couch. For couches are expensive to replace, and frequent use leads to quicker deterioration. Couches are meant for sitting, not sleeping. Akaashi’s friends know this—the one boundary they cannot cross. 

“Aka-chan,” Oikawa says, his head in Kozume’s lap, legs dangling over the armrest. “Aka-chan, can you get us some beer? I want some beer.”

“Did you not order any from the pizza place?” Akaashi asks. 

“They don’t do alcohol,” Kozume says. “This is just some takeout place, not a bar.” 

“And you couldn’t buy any on your way in.”

“Now, why would we spend our hard earned money when you’re right here?” Kuroo says.

“I work hard for my money, too,” Akaashi says, but his efforts are futile, because they’re right, he has the most money, and the best place, and he can’t tell them no because they’re right. Another expense to add to his personal spending budget for the month, another missed Sunday night movie rental. He hasn’t rented a Sunday night movie in weeks. 

Akashi gets up with a silent sigh, walking over to the kitchen island again, this time for his wallet. He withdraws a twenty, holds it out to Kuroo. “Try not to spend more than ten dollars, please.” 

“Whoa, whoa, who said I’m going? Can’t you see I’m lying here?” 

“Who else do you expect to go? Oikawa?” Because god forbid Oikawa do something useful. “I’m not leaving my apartment while you guys are here.”

“Sure you are,” Kuroo says. “Last time Kenma did it. It’s only fair this way.” 

“You say that like you’ve ever gone,” Kozume says without looking up from his phone. 

“I, too, have gone!” Kuroo argues. 

“Only because you were already drunk and wanted more beer. And then we had to drag you back into the apartment because you passed out on the lawn in front of the building.” 

“Oh? Our Kozume is looking for a fight, now, is he?” 

“I’ll go,” Akaashi says, shoving the bill back into his wallet, his wallet into his pocket. He trusts they won’t do anything to his apartment, but he can’t let them know this. “If anything happens while I’m gone—”

“Aka-chan, relax,” Oikawa says. “Worrying as much as you do will shorten your life.” 

“I’m not worried. I will be going now.” And he slips on a pair of slides, gives his friends one last glance before opening the door and leaving the apartment. 

Akaashi doesn’t mind the trip, really. Just an elevator ride to the ground floor and a walk to the corner of the street. He appreciates the convenience of the apartment’s location, close enough to corner stores and restaurants and the bus stop that takes him directly to work, but far enough to ensure quiet at night. And the night is just that: quiet and calm and perhaps a suggestion of rain in the air. A person here and there on their way back to their respective homes, while Akaashi walks in the opposite direction, toward the street where city life begins.

Had his friends not shown up, Akaashi would have ended up going to the corner store, anyway, for he likes to take advantage of the convenience of it all, of being able to easily pick up premade onigiri or a bottle of Pocari Sweat should the urge arise. Though he tends to linger outside of the store rather than go in, forcing himself to curb his temptations for the sake of his food budget. But it’s a nice walk, an excuse to get out of the apartment and experience the neighborhood beyond his daily commute to and from work. He wonders if he should move the beer expense from his personal expenses list to his food list, but, no, beer isn’t food, and besides, it’s for his friends. A gift of sorts. Along with the pizza.

The corner store is as busy as one tends to be on a Saturday night, so Akaashi waits in line for a couple of minutes before securing his six pack and heading back out into the cool evening. The bottles clink against each other in the plastic bag dangling from his right hand, and Akaashi takes in the noise, the sound of chiming glass and slow tires on narrow streets and murmurs of passing conversations. Quiet compared to the banter of his friends, and his steps quicken at the thought—a sudden urge to get back to his apartment, to provide his gift of sorts. 

A walk shortened by Akaashi’s eager pace, though he slows down as the apartment building comes into view, an attempt to subdue his eagerness. A baseless eagerness, for he knows his friends haven’t trashed his apartment, and he’s not excited for beer. 

The sky releases a drizzle as Akaashi approaches the building, and he stops, looks up at the sky, blinks against a droplet of water that splatters against his glasses. Rain, nothing rare, but tonight it feels like an omen. A ridiculous thought, really. Akaashi keeps walking. 

Drizzle turns into torrent in a matter of seconds, and it’s strange, how quickly the sky changes its mind. Just that morning, a sunny day, and the weather app on Akaashi’s phone had promised but a couple of clouds in the evening. A night of little surprises. 

At the entrance into the building, a man stands under the awning in front of the keypad to unlock the door, squinting at the small digital screen above it. From first glance, Akaashi can tell the person does not live here, a delivery employee of sorts with a bright yellow collared shirt and terrible khaki pants and a red visor that does little to tame his black and grey hair spilling and dripping over the thin strap. Nothing Akaashi hasn’t seen before, as ordering delivery is common, and residents tend to forget the building is not open to the public. Akaashi approaches the man without question, waits.

It takes a moment, but the man soon realizes he is not alone.

“Oh, hey,” he says over the pounding of the rain, and Akaashi has to keep his expression in check. Such an interesting face, with eyes so big and bright, and bushy, arched eyebrows to match. A deer caught in the headlights, but he is not nervous. “Hey, do you know how this thing works? Does it call people? How do I—the door is locked.”

“I’ve got it,” Akaashi says, walking toward the keypad, and the man barely moves, keeping Akaashi wedged between insulated delivery bag and wall. A four digit pin, easy enough for his friends to remember, and the door unlocks with a click. Akaashi opens the door, remembers the man, holds the door for him. The man does not move, eyes still big and bright. “It’s open,” Akaashi says, gestures at the door.

“Oh, sweet,” the delivery employee says, walks in. “Thanks, man. This is my first day on the job, and it’s really fun, but it’s also really hard, you know?” 

Akaashi nods politely, his footsteps echoing through the tiled hallway, each step creating a tiny puddle. He presses the button to the elevator, and the man stands beside him, still talking.

“At first they tried getting me to do scooter deliveries, but one of the tires popped when I sat on it, which, I don’t think I’m  _ that  _ big, but I’m training to go pro in volleyball, so maybe I was just too strong.” 

The elevator doors slide open. Akaashi steps in. “What floor?” he asks.

“Fifth!” Akaashi’s floor. 

“Oh,” Akaashi says, “are you from that new pizza place?”

“Yeah!” 

“You must be delivering to my apartment. We’re expecting an order.” 

“No way! That’s so cool! Man, this job is fun! Like, what other job would have me running into my customer in the elevator of an apartment building? I already know I’ll miss this once I go pro. And how cool will that be for you? You’ll be watching volleyball on TV and I’ll be on there spiking and you’ll turn to your friends like, ‘Hey! I know that guy! That’s Bokuto Koutarou.’ I’m Bokuto Koutarou, by the way.”

The elevator opens and Akaashi steps out, quiet, because how is he supposed to respond to all of this? Such a talkative person, maybe even more so than his friends. And his eyes, like headlights, ensuring his presence is noted, blinding. Akaashi can’t make eye contact. He types in the pin to his door, unlocks it. The man, Bokuto Koutarou, follows Akaashi, stops under the doorframe, one foot over the threshold. 

“Oh?” Kuroo says, still on the floor, head tilted toward the door. “You back, Akaashi? Who’s that?”

“Hi!” Bokuto says, waving. “I’m your delivery guy! I’m here with your pizza!”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says as a way of introduction, but why is he introducing the delivery man to his friends? 

“Bokuto-san? You guys know each other?” Oikawa asks, upper body hanging off the couch, legs propped on the backrest. He rolls off, does a tumble on the floor, walks into the foyer. 

“No, we don’t,” Akaashi says at the same time Bokuto says, “Now we do!” 

“Man, Aka-chan, you’re drenched. That rain came outta nowhere, huh?” Oikawa takes the bag with the six pack from Akaashi, pulls out a bottle. “Oh, you got the good stuff, nice!” He retreats back to the living room with a wave. “Bye-bye, Bokuto-san.” 

Akaashi turns to Bokuto who stands blinking, unfazed, a big smile on his face. A heavy sort of humbleness overwhelms Akaashi, a humbleness that comes from looking at this man, this boy, wet, with pizza boxes in hand, working a part-time job while trying to go pro in volleyball. And he sure has the build for it, this Bokuto-san, and Akaashi thinks maybe he  _ was _ too strong for the scooter. 

“Uh,” Akaashi starts, clears his throat. He pulls out his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold of the rain. A twenty, a fifty, a hundred, and Akaashi takes out a bill, puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Would you like an umbrella? It’s raining rather heavily outside.” He grabs the pizza boxes with one hand, gives Bokuto the money with the other. 

“Oh, I’ll just run back to the shop! I think I’m late for my next order, anyway.” But Akaashi doesn’t hear him, already reaching for an umbrella neatly tucked away in the coat closet, shoving it into his hand. 

“Please, it’s the least I could do. And you can keep the change. I apologize for the trouble.” 

Bokuto laughs a hearty laugh, the sort of laugh that Akaashi feels in his chest. “It’s been no problem at all! But are you sure about the change? Your pizza was only—”

“Please, I insist,” Akaashi says, but he doesn’t know why. Bokuto is right, this is no problem, he’s just doing his job, and this entire interaction has been nothing, really, just a little coincidence, but why does Akaashi feel affected so? 

“Well, thank you, Akaashi—that’s what your friends said, right? Akaashi?” 

Akaashi nods. “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I hate to keep you from your work. It would be a shame if you got in trouble on your first day. I hope you have a nice evening. Thank you for the delivery.” 

And Bokuto looks like he has more to say, mouth open, but he steps out of the apartment, and Akaashi relaxes, but there is no reason for this. “Stay dry,” Akaashi says, a goodbye of sorts, but Bokuto is not dry, so it is a stupid thing to say. Stupid. 

Akaashi waits for Bokuto to reach the elevator before closing the door, pizza still in hand, slides still on, and he flounders, but quietly so, because nobody can know this, that Akaashi just tipped a pizza delivery boy eighty dollars, eighty dollars to add to his list of personal expenses, now far over budget. Eighty dollars he will have to deduct from next month’s budget, but Akaashi can’t bring himself to tell his friends to stop coming over. 

“Aka-chan,” Oikawa says, “what’s taking so long? I’m hungry!” 

“Coming,” Akaashi croaks, then, “coming,” louder this time, as he slips out of his slides, damp feet padding against the laminated wood floor as he makes his way into the living room. 


	2. on a wednesday night after work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so if all things go according to plan i will be updating this every sunday....IF all things go according to plan....
> 
> thank you for reading!!

A week passes, and it’s a new month, and Akaashi is on the bus at 9 p.m. coming home late from work. A new month, which means a budget reset, and though he is tired and a little irritated by his team’s inability to work in a timely manner prior to today’s deadline, he feels temporarily relieved from his usual financial concerns. Financial concerns which are quickly remembered, because today was supposed to be grocery shopping day, and now it is too late to grocery shop. A new month, an empty fridge. Akaashi’s irritation grows, but he suppresses it with a silent sigh. 

9 p.m., closing hour for places that aren’t fast food, and Akaashi has no interest in venturing into a bar, either. Maybe onigiri from the corner store, but Akaashi skipped lunch, so not even five onigiri will satiate him. A waste of money, eating out, but what choice does he have? Or perhaps he should go straight back home to sleep and wait until the morning. 

The bus squeals to a stop across from the street leading toward Akaashi’s apartment, and Akaashi steps out with a quiet thank you to the driver, the crisp evening air fresh on his face. A Wednesday night, so the block is relatively quiet, and Akaashi waits for the bus to continue on its way before crossing the street. The corner store’s illuminated interior beckons for Akaashi, because an ice cream bar or bag of chips or bottled fruit smoothie would be an easy fix, something to keep his hunger at bay, but he knows better than to rely on snacks, which add up in a matter of days, small expenses turned damage to his bank account. 

Akaashi likes food, just as one likes sunny days or dogs. But he also likes order, and the over-abundance of food options causes disorder in his mind, for how can he make a decision about what to eat right on the spot? His shopping list written in accordance with his food budget ensures certain meals occurring on certain days, so to be left like this, left to ponder about the possibilities of dinner options at 9 p.m. on a Wednesday night—it is all too much to handle. 

Once across the street, Akaashi considers the shops lining the block. The corner store, right there, and a closed deli, quiet sushi bar, takeout pizza place. Takeout pizza. Akaashi knows this restaurant, having been open since he moved into the neighborhood, but what about the new place Kozume recommended that one night? The one night with his friends? It was rainy, Akaashi remembers, and he went over budget with his eighty dollar tip, and the pizza was alright, sweet potato with a nice, soft crust. Pizza which he only had one slice of, because he ate beforehand, a microwave dinner Oikawa said didn’t count as a meal. If he orders a pizza now, he’ll definitely have leftovers tomorrow, maybe even for the day after that. Just a small pizza. Probably the same price as a bottled drink and snack from the corner store. Akaashi starts walking. 

And then he pulls out his phone, realizing he does not know where he is going. The pizza place is nearby, he knows this, but where, exactly…. 

Pizza, that’s what the place is called, which Akaashi recalls being stamped in bold, red letters on the cardboard boxes handed to him by Bokuto-san. Is Bokuto-san in today? Akaashi types the name into his phone’s GPS, begins following the displayed directions. 

A walk to the opposite end of the block and a left around the corner and there stands Pizza, as promised, with bold, red, lit-up letters above the shop informing Akaashi of his arrival. Pizza past 9 p.m., which probably isn’t good for Akaashi’s digestive system, considering he plans to go back to his apartment and sleep right after, but he is already here, and someone is exiting the shop and holding the door open for him, and it would be rude not to enter now. 

When Akaashi walks in, the urge for pizza dwindles, for the shop seems so full of youth, a youthfulness meant for teenagers and college students, and he is neither of these anymore. Neon signs depicting dripping slices of pizza and cheesy quotes decorate the walls, with a blank panel by the door reserved for visitors to tape up polaroid photos taken in the shop. The room glows a subdued red, a jarring sort of lighting, but maybe Akaashi’s eyes have grown too old for such vibrant colors. 

“Welcome to Pizza!” someone says from behind the cash register, and Akaashi blinks into the shop, realizing he is the only one here. 

Akaashi nods politely, lingering by the door. Are they closing soon? His phone says they’re open until midnight, but there’s no music playing right now, which contributes to his discomfort, because youthful places play music, right? Maybe he should leave.

“See you tomorrow, Komi!” says someone who isn’t the cashier, and the cashier lifts his hand in a wave as Bokuto comes out from behind the counter, pizza box in hand. 

Pain is what Akaashi feels in this moment, because what is he doing in a pizza shop on a Wednesday night in his rumpled work clothes? And there Bokuto is, smiling as big as Akaashi remembers, so comfortable in his demeanor, the pizza box like a natural extension of his arm. 

Akaashi turns his head away, considers the tiled floor, fails to leave the shop before Bokuto notices his presence. He shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have, so why did he? What was he thinking? Does he even like pizza? 

“Hey,” Bokuto says, “hey, hey, I know you! You live in that apartment, top floor, gave me the umbrella? The eighty dollar tip? I know you!” 

“ _ That’s  _ the tipper?” the cashier, Komi, says, eyes wide. “No way. I thought he was some old, weird, sugar daddy type of guy.” 

Sugar daddy. The last time Akaashi felt this embarrassed was in college when Oikawa jumped out at him from behind a shelf in the library, making him fall with a row of shelved books in tow. Akaashi is everything but a sugar daddy. Sugar daddies don’t intently set budgets at the beginnings of new months, do they? Tipping big to a stranger once doesn’t make Akaashi a sugar daddy.

“Can’t get enough of Pizza’s pizza, can you?” Bokuto says, hair flying everywhere, relieved from the containment of the uniform’s visor. He watches Akaashi expectantly, and Akaashi feels caught. 

“Just thought I’d stop by on my way back from work for a quick slice,” Akaashi says, professional voice on. The easiest thing to fall back into, the person expected of him at work. Editor Akaashi, respected in the company for his diligence and level head. 

“Hey, I’m getting off work, too!” Bokuto says, walking toward Akaashi, who moves accordingly, allowing himself to be redirected out of the shop. “Want to share this pizza with me? It’s from a cancelled order, so I thought I’d just take it home, but now that you’re here—it’s like it wants to be shared!” 

Akaashi looks through the window of the restaurant, sees Komi standing behind the cash register, mindlessly scrolling through his phone like they had never been in there. “It’s late,” he says, “and you just got off work. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your plans for the evening.” 

“The only plans I have are to eat this pizza with you! Let’s go to the corner store—I’ll buy you a beer! For all you did for me that one day. I would have brought your umbrella to work today if I knew you were coming.” Bokuto starts walking, and Akaashi follows, but only because it’s in the direction of his apartment. All the signs have been pointing to no dinner tonight, and Akaashi accepts this. 

“I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need,” Akaashi says. “I was just on my way home, anyway. And I’m not actually hungry. I don’t drink beer, either….” 

“What do you mean you don’t drink beer? I saw you with that six pack the other day.” Bokuto turns around, watches Akaashi as he walks. Akaashi looks ahead, eyes trained on the nearing street lamps. 

“That was for my friends.” 

“Well, I’m also buying beer for a friend. You’re my friend, right? I like to buy things for my friends, too.” Bokuto raises his arms above his head, stretches in a way athletes do, so naturally, and Akaashi recalls his aspirations to go pro in volleyball. 

“Are volleyball players allowed to drink beer and eat pizza?” 

“You remember I play volleyball? Alright! I knew you’d make a good friend!”

Akaashi says nothing, because of course he remembers the pizza delivery guy he gave eighty dollars and an umbrella to. Bokuto Koutarou, too big for delivery scooters, pro volleyball player in training. Bokuto-san, who wears a terrible yellow polo top for work, and Akaashi thinks he’d look better in black. 

Against his better judgement, Akaashi finds himself seated at one of the small plastic tables outside of the corner store, waiting for Bokuto to return from buying drinks. Just like a casual business meeting, Akaashi tells himself. Like running into his boss on a day off at a cafe downtown. And his boss is just as sociable, really, perfect for a leadership position, capable of making friends with all who work with him. The way Bokuto insisted on paying, too, when Akaashi offered to do so, wallet already out. All formalities, like business partners, associates, though Akaashi doubts Bokuto-san would do well in a stiff office setting. 

The bell above the door into the store jingles, and out walks Bokuto, two cans of beer and a few napkins in hand. Akaashi sits up straight on his stool, hands in his lap, like waiting for a cue, all formalities. Maybe too formal, which even his coworkers point out, so he tries to relax, brings an elbow to the table, removes it as Bokuto sets down the cans. 

“Wednesday nights are awesome!” Bokuto says, plopping down on the stool across the table, and Akaashi hears the legs grate against the concrete. Bokuto’s knees knock into Akaashi’s, both men too large for the table, but Bokuto pays no mind, already opening a can and bringing it to his lips. “The store was basically empty, it was so strange! Just me and the cashier, like we were sharing a moment.” 

Akaashi nods, hands back in his lap, which is stupid, so he picks up his own can, pops the tab. “Thanks for this,” he says, lifting the can a little. “You didn’t have to.” 

“Akaashi, it was, like, four dollars—it’s Akaashi, yeah? Your name?”

“Yes, Akaashi Keiji is my name.”

“Nice!” Bokuto pumps his arm, a drop of beer splashing out of the can. “I’m usually so bad with names, but how could I forget yours, Akaashi Keiji? I will always remember the names of cool people, just as people will remember mine after seeing me spike on live TV!” 

“Speaking of,” Akaashi begins, because his boss likes talking about himself, so Bokuto-san probably feels the same way, right? “Speaking of, Bokuto-san, pardon me if I’m being too forward, but if you plan to play volleyball for a living, what brings you to Pizza?” 

Bokuto, suddenly reminded of pizza, opens the box on the table between them, reaches for a slice. “Oh, this? I start training around 8 a.m., and I’d train through the night if I could, but the gym always kicks me out in the afternoon so I don’t overwork myself, which I would never do in the first place. But they always do—that is, kick me out—so I thought I’d find something else to do with all the time I have left in the day, and working seems cool, right? It’s a cool job. I like it! I’ve met all sorts of cool people already! Imagine, Akaashi, if I didn’t work this job, we would have never met. Except you would have probably seen me on TV, but only you would know me, and I wouldn’t know you, which wouldn’t be cool.”

Akaashi respects Bokuto’s desire to work, even after a long day of training, but he doesn’t say this. Instead, “Is this job your only source of income?” comes out, and Akaashi immediately regrets it, any attempts at formality lost in one question, but before he can apologize, Bokuto starts speaking, unperturbed. 

“Yeah, for now, but I live in a house with some friends and one of their parents owns the place so we only have to cover things like water and gas and wifi. It’s a pretty sweet deal, actually. I’m so lucky to have nice friends!” 

“Wow,” Akaashi says, because he really does feel surprised, almost in awe, because living rent-free—the things he could do with his budget. “That sounds very nice, Bokuto-san.” 

“It really is! I have my own room and everything! This job helps, though, so I can buy things, like food and beer for friends, like you, because you’re my friend.” Bokuto gestures at the table for emphasis, realizes he still has a slice of pizza in hand, takes a bite out of it. 

“You shouldn’t spend your money on me, Bokuto-san.”

“But you’re the one who tipped me eighty dollars!” 

Akaashi, formal as ever, says, “I was a customer and you were serving me. It was simply the right thing to do.”

Bokuto considers this, bright eyes squinting, and Akaashi thinks about his astigmatism, how street lamps and traffic lights at night appear blurry because of it. Does the world look blurry through Bokuto’s eyes right now? His headlight eyes, usually lighting up everything in front of him, now half-closed. 

“Well,” Bokuto says, “I am your friend and you are my friend. Buying you a can of beer was simply the right thing to do.” 

Akaashi picks up a slice of pizza, stuffs half of it into his mouth, because his stomach feels so empty and he must fill it. He looks at his watch, 10 p.m., takes another bite of the pizza. 

“Do you like it?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi looks up, mouth full of pizza, almost choking, because Bokuto’s eyes, so bright in the dark, and why must he look so endearing? 

Akaashi nods, swallows, picks up his can of beer, swallows again. “Yeah, which one is this?” he says, admiring the crust, a lot easier to look at than Bokuto. 

“It was a special order,” Bokuto says. “I think it has,” he pauses, leaning closer to the pizza, “spinach? And this must be feta cheese, but I don’t work in the kitchen, so I might be wrong, but, wait, I took the order—yeah, that’s cheese.” 

“Spinach,” Akaashi says, and the image of Kuroo sprawled across his living room floor comes to mind. “That’s nice. My friend says spinach makes pizza better,” which Kuroo did not say, but how else is Akaashi supposed to follow up “Spinach”? 

“Oh, one of your friends from the other day? Which one? I’m sure I can remember his face. Tell me!”

“The, uh, one on the floor, with the big hair.” 

“Big hair? Like me? My friends always tell me I have big hair.” Bokuto brings his hands up to his head, pats it, palms touching the tips of his hair, all big and upright. 

“Something like yours,” Akaashi agrees, though mindlessly so, because Bokuto, so enraptured by his own hair, like a child petting a dog for the first time. Has Akaashi ever appreciated anything this simply? Empty cans of beer and lukewarm pizza have never seemed so nice. 

A scary thought, to find comfort in materiality, in things Akaashi didn’t work for. A moment that can’t be quantified by his budget, and Akaashi thinks maybe he should take an extra ten dollars off his personal expenses limit for the month. 

“You good, Akaashi? You want to touch it?” 

Akaashi’s eyes come into focus and he realizes he is staring at Bokuto. He looks away. “Oh, no, apologies, Bokuto-san. I must have zoned out for a moment there.” 

“You can touch it—everybody at the gym does, like a sort of greeting! Big-haired Bokuto! That’s me!” And Bokuto reaches for Akaashi’s hand before he can disagree, and his hand rests on Bokuto’s head, so lightly, such a feather touch. “Isn’t it nice?” Bokuto asks, and Akaashi allows his hand to run over the strands, barely touching the tips before withdrawing, if just to satisfy Bokuto. 

“Yes,” Akaashi says, “you have nice hair, Bokuto-san. Maybe people will remember you by this when they see you on TV.” 

“Right! And my spiking, of course, but my hair, it’s like my signature, my  _ look _ .” 

“And your eyes,” Akaashi says, but it comes out as a mumble, and he is grateful for this, suddenly sobered by his words. A professional meeting, that’s what this is, a meeting between business partners, colleagues. A business expense. Akaashi pulls out his wallet. 

“It is rather late,” Akaashi says, “and, unfortunately, I have work in the morning, and I’m sure you want to get your rest before training. Perhaps we should be on our way.” 

Bokuto, still occupied by his hair, frowns, looks at Akaashi. “Aw, man, really? Oh, yeah, it’s a Wednesday night, huh. I’ve been forgetting that Wednesdays happen in the middle of the week, because I don’t work on Thursdays, so Wednesdays are like Fridays for me, you know?” 

Akaashi nods, works to tidy up the table. He crumples up a napkin, squeezes it between his pizza-greased fingers. “Do you live nearby, Bokuto-san?” 

“I take the bus home—there’s one that runs straight in front of my house. Isn’t that nice? Everything is so nice for me! I’m so happy with my twenties, Akaashi. Being young and out of school is awesome!” 

“I’m glad you are happy, Bokuto-san, but the buses don’t run in this neighborhood at this time.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Bokuto says, crushing an empty can in his hand, “it’s not a far walk, and it’s a nice night, so I might even jog back, who knows!” 

Akaashi stands up, takes the trash and throws it in a nearby bin. The fluorescent interior of the corner store lights up the street in a glow like that of the moon, and Akaashi looks at Bokuto, who is up and stretching, shirt pulling taut with the movement. Such terrible khaki pants, Akaashi thinks, and he considers his own attire, frowns at the wrinkles lining his dress shirt. His glasses slip down his nose, and he looks up, watches Bokuto, all yellow and khaki and blurry, his grey and black hair lost in the night. He pushes his glasses back up his nose, rights himself. 

“Here,” Akaashi says, reaching into his wallet, “taxi money. I shouldn’t have kept you so late.” 

Bokuto squints at the held out bill, shakes his head. “No way, Akaashi, I’m not taking a taxi. My legs work just fine.” 

“But it’s late,” Akaashi says, “and the streets are relatively empty. I wouldn’t want you walking back alone.” 

“But you’re walking back alone.”

“I live right up the block.” 

“But I’m strong—look at me! Do you see these muscles? Why would anybody attack me?” 

Akaashi grabs Bokuto’s hand, shoves the bill into it. “A formality,” he says. “Think of this as a formality. Please accept, Bokuto-san. I insist.” 

Bokuto frowns, but he takes the money, fingers folding over the paper. Akaashi lowers his arm, puts his hands behind his back, because touching Bokuto was a bit out of line. He wouldn’t touch his boss that way, but his boss would have taken the money no problem. Maybe Bokuto isn’t like his boss. 

“Have a restful night, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with a half-bow, because this is a business meeting. “Please get home safely.” And he gestures, an “after you” sort of gesture, and Bokuto follows it, the first to walk away. 

“We should meet up again sometime, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, sounding a little confused, but maybe Akaashi is just imagining it. “This was fun, don’t you think? And I still have so much to learn. I don’t even know where you work! What do you do for a living, Akaashi?” 

“Next time,” Akaashi says. “We can discuss next time,” and Bokuto accepts this, though reluctantly so, and Akaashi waits for him to reach a couple shops away before turning to walk in the opposite direction, toward his apartment. 

A strange business meeting, Akaashi thinks, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, his blood running a little too warm beneath his skin. He looks at the street lamps, squints at their yellow glow, keeps walking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi if you made it this far, uh, wow, thank you. maybe leave a comment or some kudos or something if you liked it, comment if you didn't like it so i can know—that sorta thing. or catch me on twt @1inhardt for fun. maybe check out my other writing while i still have your attention.... thank you for reading!!


	3. on a lonely sunday night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because apparently everything in this fic happens at night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi @ anybody who's bothered to get this far thank you for reading
> 
> i kinda had a hard time with this one but. it is here so. let me know what you think!

Akaashi knows he’s not stupid. He got good grades in high school to get into a good college, and he got good grades in college to get good recommendation letters for his job applications. And if academic success isn’t enough proof, Akaashi knows he has a way with people, a way to gain their trust and support. At work, if anything gets hard, Akaashi will handle it. Making a mistake takes one to Akaashi, because who else will help solve the issue without any ill expression. Akaashi controls his emotions better than most, and he’s mastered the art of diligence. From entry-level fact checker to head editor of the imprint in the span of two years, Akaashi has proven himself reliable in the workplace. In school and at work, Akaashi is not stupid. 

School and work make up the entirety of his life, and Akaashi has been nothing but satisfied, comfortable, never a need for more. A good student who ended up in a good company with a good job, living in a good apartment with good friends who occasionally come over for visits. When anyone asks Akaashi how he is doing, he will say he is good and mean it. He’ll say, “Well” in the workplace, as expected from an editor, but well means good, and Akaashi is always good. Minor inconveniences to irritate him sometimes, but nothing big enough to ruin his good. 

Good, what Akaashi thought of Pizza’s pizza when he first tried it, but good does not last as long with food as it does with his lifestyle, apparently. Akaashi doesn’t hate pizza, really, but the leftovers have been getting out of hand, and he does not want to eat them anymore. At first he’d bring them to work for coworkers should they have forgotten to pack a lunch for the day, but pizza every day is hardly a sustainable way of living, and his coworkers will choose buying out over having another lunch of microwaved pizza. And Akaashi knows this, too, the inability to eat pizza as one drinks water, which is why the leftovers have been piling up. He knows the problem would be solved if he just  _ stopped ordering pizza _ , a resolution that doesn’t require his academic intelligence or work ethic to carry out, so why won’t he stop doing it? 

The question he asks himself every time he orders, and the question he asks himself on this evening, this Sunday night. A weekend spent without friends or take-home work, because Kozume had a streaming fundraiser and Oikawa had a date and Kuroo won’t come over without Kozume and Akaashi finished proofreading the manuscript due Tuesday while at work. A weekend he should take advantage of, but his personal spending budget has already been maxed out, so no rental movies, and if Akaashi isn’t at work or with friends, he is at home, watching movies. An issue that could easily be resolved by monthly streaming service subscriptions or pirating, but Akaashi has enough bills to pay, and as someone who wouldn’t want the books he edits to be pirated, he knows better than to pirate movies. 

And pizza doesn’t factor into Akaashi’s personal spending budget, because he has a separate budget, a food budget, one meant for food, and pizza is food. Food for himself, not his friends, so pizza falls under the category of food. His fridge is full, sure, but maybe Oikawa was right—microwaved box dinners don’t count as proper meals, and until he has the time to learn meal prepping and to go buy the ingredients, maybe eating out is the best option. An expensive endeavor, but the month is almost over, and the budget will reset soon. New budget, new groceries in the fridge. Might as well stick with a reliable meal, which pizza has proven itself to be. 

An explanation Akaashi’s brain has been running itself through for the past three weeks, and Akaashi is tired, too tired to fight it. Tired and defeated as his thumb clicks to his recent calls list, presses the latest dialed number. A Sunday night, which means Bokuto should be at work, because Thursdays and Fridays are his days off, and Akaashi knows this from their business meeting outside the corner store on that one Wednesday night. Perhaps Akaashi is Pizza’s first loyal customer, and he’d hate to let them down so soon, and maybe his satisfaction with Bokuto’s service will earn Bokuto a promotion. Hard-working local businesses deserve the patronage. Akaashi is but a good patron. He lifts the phone to his ear.

A ring or two until Komi picks up, as usual, because it’s always Komi working shifts with Bokuto. “Hi, this is Komi with Pizza, how may I help you?” he says, and Akaashi replies, “Hello, Komi,” and a pause, before Komi says, “Hello, Akaashi! The usual, right?” The usual being spinach and feta because Bokuto thought Akaashi liked it, which he does, but multiple times a week….

“Yeah, sure, that works,” which it does, because Akaashi hasn’t really put forth the effort to look at the menu. A whole month since Akaashi has heard of Pizza, and he still doesn’t know their menu. 

“Awesome. We got a new guy in, but if you’re willing to wait for a bit, Bokuto will be back from a delivery run in around ten or so.” 

Akaashi manages an “Oh?” because this isn’t about Bokuto, so why is Komi making it about Bokuto? 

“Yeah, he’s a cool dude—learned super quick, actually. And he can deliver on scooters, so you’ll probably get your pizza faster, but—”

“No worries, Komi, the new employee is fine.”  _ I call for the pizza, not for Bokuto _ , he wants to add, but he can’t, because then it will seem like he actually  _ does  _ call for Bokuto, which he doesn’t. “For once I’ll actually get my pizza while it’s still hot, huh?” and he manages a laugh, the one he uses at work, a polite chuckle, and Komi returns it, but uncomfortably so. Maybe the work laugh doesn’t work outside of work. 

“We’ll have that out for you in about thirty minutes, if that’s okay?”

“Of course, Komi, thank you. I hope you have a good night.”

“Thanks, Akaashi. You, too,” Komi says, and the call ends with Akaashi left staring at the ceiling, prone on the couch in his living room. 

Akaashi is good. He always has been. Good at school. Good in the workplace. A good customer. A loyal customer. 8 p.m. and a little bit late for Akaashi to have dinner, but if it’s for good pizza, Akaashi is willing to deal with the subtle change, so long as he remains a good customer. 

But Pizza is open from 10 a.m., so Akaashi could order whenever his dinnertime is, which he knows, but he’s acclimated to when his friends ordered pizza the first time. Akaashi knows how to think things through. This is him thinking things through. There’s no reason to overthink ordering pizza. 

Akaashi turns on his TV, flips through the few public stations available to him. He lands on a documentary about nocturnal animals in the North American West, focuses on the baby bats and owls and possums flying and crawling across the screen. Mothers groom their young and pick at their fur and feathers with their mouths, a familial sort of love that bemuses Akaashi. He thinks about his own mother, his father, as parent-like as parents can be, but then there are his friends, who pick at him in different ways, like barging through his front door on Saturday nights and forcing him out to go bowling on holidays. Do his friends think he picks at them, too? Perhaps he takes after the baby bats and owls and possums, who allow the picking, for parents cannot pick if the young don’t allow it. Akaashi unlocks the door to his apartment for his friends, pays for the rental shoes at the bowling alley, enabling the picking, but don’t parents pick at their children because they cannot pick at themselves? If Akaashi had a gnat on his shoulder, he’d be able to flick it off by himself. If Akaashi wanted to go bowling on his own, he could. Without Akaashi, his friends wouldn’t have an apartment to enter or a person to drag out for game nights. Or maybe they’d find someone else to pick at, or even pick amongst themselves. What reason do they have to stay with Akaashi? 

A knock at the door, and Akaashi doesn’t hear it, eyes glazed over as he stares at the TV. A new program has begun, something about the reproductive cycle of bacteria, and only then does Akaashi realize two hours have passed and he still has not received his pizza. Akaashi checks his phone, no missed calls or text messages or any notifications, really, and there’s another knock at the door, the first one he hears. 

“Akaashi!” he hears through the door. “Hey, Akaashi, it’s me! It’s Bokuto! I have your pizza!” 

Suddenly awake, Akaashi pulls himself up from the couch, smooths out his shirt. Some shirt he wore to bed and wore all day and Akaashi wishes he had put in the effort to make himself presentable today. He runs a hand through his hair, but he didn’t bother drying it properly last night, knowing he’d be home alone all day, so his efforts have no results. What happened to the new employee? The one who was supposed to show up on a scooter two hours ago? Akaashi gives up on his appearance—because Bokuto won’t care,  _ he  _ doesn’t care—and makes his way toward the door, opens it a crack. 

“Oh,” he starts, clears his throat, “hello, Bokuto-san. What brings you here?” 

“Hi, Akaashi! I brought you pizza! Komi told me to bring it to you on my way home, said you wanted to see me.” 

“Did he?” Akaashi says, eyebrows beginning to raise, but he lowers them, neutralizes his expression. Turns out he should have clarified to Komi his desire for pizza and  _ not  _ Bokuto after all. 

“Yeah! Told me about an hour ago, which got me so excited for my shift to end I accidentally swapped deliveries between two houses. Isn’t that funny? Akaashi, it’s always so much fun to see you!” Bokuto inches his way closer with each sentence, and Akaashi subconsciously opens the door a little wider as he approaches. “Komi says this pizza’s on the house, by the way, since you’re such a loyal customer and all.”

“That most certainly is not necessary,” Akaashi says. “Not to mention, the cost of delivery. I wouldn’t want you to be unpaid for your labor.” 

“But you said you wanted to see me! Coming by when you ask me to isn’t labor.” Bokuto stands in the foyer now, all greasy uniform and disheveled hair and probing eyes. Akaashi takes the pizza box from him, backs up into his apartment. 

“If you could give me a second to grab my wallet, Bokuto-san, I will be right back.” And Akaashi leaves Bokuto at the entrance, makes his way into the kitchen where his wallet sits on the island as usual. As he riffles through the bills, he cannot help but think about the absurdity of it all, of this pizza boy, this  _ man _ , standing in the foyer of his apartment at his call, which never happened. He did not call Bokuto to his apartment. But he’s here, this Bokuto, so how could he turn him away? Just send him off with another slip of paper in hand? 

A business relationship is what Akaashi thought they had, but do business partners go over to each other’s apartments past business hours? Akaashi wills away the thought, because goods have been exchanged as expected of their meeting, and as long as he pays Bokuto for his work, the meeting will conclude accordingly. 

“You live here by yourself, Kaashi?” Bokuto says, and Akaashi feels his heart leap into his throat as Bokuto approaches, leans against the island like Kuroo would. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, because what else can he say in this moment, looking at Bokuto in his kitchen, shoes off and clothes rumpled and Akaashi thinks, This is my home and Bokuto is in it. 

“I know you said to wait at the door, but I’m not here to be paid for a delivery. You invited me over, right? This is me coming in.” Bokuto walks around the counter, looks at the front of Akaashi’s fridge, at the lone magnetic notepad with scribbled reminders. “So you live here alone, without roommates? That’s so cool! Do you pay for this place yourself? Your job must be big! Like, in a big company, as a big person, like a boss or something. I’m friends with a boss! I can’t wait to tell Komi this. Akaashi is a boss!”

Akaashi’s wallet slips from his hands, lands back on the island. Bokuto, in his apartment, socks sliding on his wood floors, and he’s glad he swept yesterday. Pizza and any hunger he had long since forgotten as he watches Bokuto leave the kitchen to admire the living room, look out the balcony doors, smell a flower in a pot by the hallway leading to Akaashi’s room. 

“You’re so neat, Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “I don’t think my room has ever been as clean as this. Do you have someone come over and clean your place, like a maid? I wish I could afford a maid.” 

“I don’t have a maid, Bokuto-san. That would be a waste of money when I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself.”

“A waste of money?” Bokuto furrows his brows. “But if you’re a boss, don’t you make a lot of money?”

“I’m not a boss, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi returns to his kitchen, takes out two glasses from a cabinet, fills them with water. He brings the cups to the living room, offers one to Bokuto, gestures for him to take a seat.

Bokuto sits on the couch, contemplating. “If you aren’t a boss, then…. Do your parents give you money? I sometimes ask my mom for money when my phone bill comes in, but she just yells at me to get a real job, says until I go pro I’m not a  _ real  _ volleyball player.” 

“My parents do not give me money, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto takes a gulp of his water, legs bouncing. A strangled sort of sound leaves his mouth, and Akaashi is reminded of Oikawa whenever he gets dumped. “ _ Kaashi _ ,” Bokuto says, drawing his name out, “you make it so hard for me to  _ understand _ . At first I thought having a mysterious rich friend would be cool, but what’s the point in that if I can’t tell everybody about you? Who’s gonna believe me when I say I have a rich friend, but I don’t even know his job?” Bokuto turns to face Akaashi, who sits on the other end of the couch, staring forward, hands cupping his glass on his level knees. “Hey. Hey, Akaashi. Is this a game? Are you making this a game? Am I supposed to guess things about you? You know, like in those American movies where you see guys go after girls and the girls play hard to get.”

“I’m an editor, Bokuto-san. I work at a publishing house downtown. I’m the head editor of their fantasy imprint.” 

“Fantasy imprint? Is that for books? You edit books?” Bokuto blinks, eyes wide and focused and glittering, and Akaashi counts this expression as number three of the different ways Bokuto looks while thinking. Eyes always so big and bright like a beacon, and Akaashi thinks he likes it better when Bokuto furrows his brows, taking the attention away from his eyes. 

Akaashi looks down at his glass, watches the water ripple as his leg attempts to jitter. He pushes the soles of his feet into the floor, anchors himself in his seated position. “For the most part, yes, I edit books.” 

A second for the words to register, then, “That’s so cool! I’m friends with a writer!” Bokuto stands, too excited to sit still, and Akaashi stands up with him, arm shooting out to grab the glass precariously close to spilling in Bokuto’s hand. “Oops,” Bokuto says, “almost made a mess on my first day over!” He laughs. “This is all just so cool! I’m so happy I met you, Akaashi. Aren’t you glad we met?” 

Too preoccupied with setting down the cups on the coffee table, Akaashi notices Bokuto’s expectant gaze a moment too late. “Oh,” he says, “yes, of course, Bokuto-san. It is a pleasure to know you.” And Akaashi thinks his hesitation suggested otherwise, but Bokuto responds with a big, pleasant smile, and Akaashi feels the corners of his lips lifting, too. 

  
  


Good, how Akaashi feels always, but there’s a different sort of good that comes from spending time with friends, eating his favorite foods, reading a promising manuscript after a stream of mediocre ones. Pleasant, perhaps, but doesn’t that mean the same thing as good? 

Akaashi asks himself questions about synonyms while editing and while contemplating the state of his life. Good, which works with friends and family and strangers, but Well is required in the workplace, in formal write-ups and lines that aren’t dialogue. Good, which works as a standard adjective, but in instances when good isn’t quite strong enough, pleasant may be better. Though in manuscripts, synonym edits tend to happen as a matter of preference, because while Akaashi may think good and pleasant share the same meaning, the author may believe pleasant to be a bit stronger, fueled by something a little bit  _ more _ . 

In the case of this moment, this sitting with Bokuto in Akaashi’s apartment on a Sunday night, Akaashi feels pleasant, though before he thought good and pleasant were the same thing. The “pleasant” authors will argue for, the one fueled by something a little bit  _ more _ —Akaashi thinks he understands this meaning better now. 

Unaware of the hour, Akaashi speaks with Bokuto, finds something a little more to their conversation than the ones shared between coworkers or friends. Much too late for a Sunday night with work the following morning, but Akaashi forgets about Sunday, about the constrictions of time, because in this moment Akaashi feels pleasant, and maybe the timelessness of it all is the  _ more  _ turning his good into pleasant. 

The way Bokuto uses his entire body to express himself, arms wide and eyes so big and mouth constantly moving, unlike anybody Akaashi has met before. The energy and emotion he exudes, so plain for all to see, and Akaashi feels it in his bones, a subtle ache like growth pains. Such a pleasant moment, even with his eyes drooping from the late hour. Akaashi has never felt more alive. 

2 a.m. and Akaashi sits on the floor, back against the couch, while Bokuto lies on his stomach, sprawled across the floor in Kuroo’s spot. The pizza once forgotten on the kitchen island now an empty box on the coffee table, a product of mindless eating between spoken words. As their conversation dwindles, the sleepiness of Sunday night setting in, Akaashi can’t help but worry about the end of this pleasant, how soon he feels it approaching. Bokuto, looking so at home on the floor, cheek squished against the wood panels, and time feels suddenly real again, 7 a.m. alarms and 8:10 a.m. bus rides and 9 a.m. clock-ins all pushing their way to the forefront of Akaashi’s mind. 

Akaashi watches Bokuto’s eyes go from wide to closed in a matter of seconds, then wide again as he tries his hardest to stay awake. Both reaching for any excuse to not part ways, but silently so, because to admit this out loud….

Akaashi, not thinking, says, “You’re welcome to sleep on my couch, Bokuto-san,” which he isn’t, because nobody’s allowed to sleep on Akaashi’s couch. Not even Akaashi sleeps on his couch. 

“Hm?” Bokuto mumbles, head barely lifting before dropping again. “I’m alright, Kaashi. Your floor feels fine.” And his eyes close, a soft flutter Akaashi can see only because he’s wearing his glasses, and Akaashi can’t stop looking. 

Late, too late for a bus ride home, and to get Bokuto in a taxi—possible, but what would be the point? Everything he needs, Akaashi should have. A bed, maybe not, but on the floor Bokuto rests so comfortably, his face soft and smoothed over, mouth a little open as he breathes. Just one night, Akaashi thinks. This is just one night, and it is late, and Akaashi has things to do in the morning, too. 

Akaashi moves to stand, reconsiders, pulls his knees to his chest. He takes off his glasses, puts them on the coffee table. A subtle blur washes over his vision, though mostly due to lack of sleep. He rubs his eyes, stifles a yawn, forces himself to stand. In his room, he pulls the duvet off his bed, the only blanket in his apartment, and takes a pillow, too. Nobody sleeps over at Akaashi’s apartment, but he knows a thing or two about being hospitable, and the polite thing to do is provide a blanket and pillow. 

Back in the living room, Akaashi stands near Bokuto, duvet and pillow still in his arms, because what if he wakes Bokuto up? Is he a light sleeper? Does he even like to use pillows and blankets? 

Bokuto flips onto his back, arm landing on the floor with a thud in the process. Akaashi flinches, waits for his eyes to open, but he remains asleep, unperturbed. Maybe not a light sleeper after all. 

As Akaashi moves to lay out the blanket, he is reminded of nocturnal animals, of familial love and picking as a gesture of affection, and Akaashi thinks maybe he isn’t meant for picking. Poking and prodding as ways to express one’s love, but providing is a form of care, too, and a gentler one at that. Akaashi, poked at by his friends to provide, and he does, a bit begrudgingly, but only to demonstrate the poking has been received. 

Bokuto, a pizza delivery boy turned colleague and maybe friend, though he doesn’t pick at Akaashi the way his friends do. Yet the feeling Akaashi gets from Bokuto, stronger than picking, stronger than gestures of familial love, but Bokuto does nothing to prompt this feeling, existing as he does and Akaashi feels so  _ affected _ , affected as he gently pulls the duvet over Bokuto’s feet, up to his shoulders, affected as he hesitates with the pillow, wonders if he should lift Bokuto’s head. Such a tender moment, tucking someone in, and Akaashi doesn’t know if he deserves it, this tenderness with Bokuto, a pizza delivery boy asleep on his apartment floor _.  _

Akaashi holds his breath as he slides a hand under Bokuto’s head, reminded of the feeling of Bokuto’s hair outside the corner store. A different angle this time, from the back of his head, like a bed of feathers, a bed of feathers laid gently on the pillow Akaashi slips beneath his head. So close, Akaashi sees every little eyelash that frames Bokuto’s eyes, his eyes so big and bright but right now they are closed, covered by eyelids just as wide, a surface of smooth skin, delicate, and Akaashi pulls away, concerned by his urge to touch.  __

He retreats back to his position by the couch, arms wrapped around his knees. To go to bed, to leave Bokuto here on the floor of his living room while he settles onto a mattress, would be wrong, so he stays, sits, chin now propped on his knees, head heavy, eyes tired. A restless night Akaashi already feels in his spine, and tomorrow will be a long day at work, but for now he sleeps, a pleasant end to a pleasant moment. 


	4. on a late monday morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi so this is, like, uh, not exactly bkak maybe like 30% bkak but it is necessary character development of sorts in order to achieve 100% bkak, so sorry if this isn't what you're looking for but also read it for akaashi he's still growing watch him grow ok thank you for still being here

The following morning Akaashi wakes up with a start, beyond disoriented and certain in how  _ wrong  _ it all feels. As his eyes fly open, he finds himself wedged between couch and coffee table, head resting on a pillow and there is his duvet, tangled all around him, and he struggles to sit up. He pulls his arms from under the covers, reaching blindly for his phone, but a rub of his eyes to clear his vision locates his phone out of reach, next to his glasses and a notepad, all lined up neatly on the coffee table. 

Akaashi unfurls himself from the duvet, puts on his glasses before considering his options: the notepad from his refrigerator and his phone which will show him the time, but his phone, always there, and what is his notepad doing off the refrigerator? He picks it up, reads the note scribbled beneath the start of his grocery list. 

“GOOD MORNING AKAASHI!!!!” it says in big, round letters, all squished together to fit on the page. “THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME SLEEP OVER! LET’S DO THIS AGAIN YEAH? HAVE A NICE DAY!!!!” So characteristically Bokuto, and Akaashi smiles, because he hears Bokuto’s voice, loud and clear, a pleasant sound in his apartment. Beneath the note, a phone number is scrawled, and Akaashi grabs his phone, types the number into his contacts, saves it under “Bokuto-san.” And then he notices the time, 9:10 a.m., and any calm he feels leaves him in a rush, like a gust of wind slamming a door shut. 

Late, Akaashi is never late, but today, on this Monday, late, late, late, and did he even brush his teeth last night? Wash his face? And his clothes, the same ones as yesterday, which—is this what Bokuto woke up to? Akaashi, conked out on the floor in his day clothes, which are actually his night clothes, because Sundays alone Akaashi can’t be bothered to change, but with Bokuto over….

Too late, everything is too late to think about, and Akaashi has to get to work. His perfect attendance streak, ruined, the efforts of twenty plus years of his life all for naught. He never forgets to set his alarm, and he wakes up out of habit, anyway, generally a light sleeper, used to the routine of his life, but now, with Bokuto around, except he can’t blame it on Bokuto, because this is his fault, his lateness. Staying up late last night was a choice he made and now he must face the consequences.

  
  


The consequences end up being less severe than anticipated because Akaashi is never late and never gets in trouble. One mistake quickly becomes a laughing matter to his coworkers, and soon enough anybody who passes by his desk makes some sort of remark about “Tardykaashi.” Very unfunny, but Akaashi manages his work laugh to everybody’s satisfaction, and the team goes about their business as usual. Except for Akaashi, who can’t stop thinking about being late, because there is no reason for this. He shouldn’t have been late. This isn’t the first time he didn’t get to bed on time—Oikawa loves making last-minute visits, and sometimes a movie is too good to pause halfway through and resume the following day—and he always manages to wake up accordingly. The minor bumps in the steady routine of Akaashi’s life have no effect on his ability to exist as normal, but even so, this minor bump shouldn’t have been a minor bump at all. A late night Bokuto visit equals that of a late night Oikawa visit. Same concept, different person. Then again, Oikawa has never slept over, knowing better than to overstay his welcome, but it’s not like Bokuto was overstaying his welcome, either. Akaashi told him he could stay. 

“My god,” Akaashi says, and he receives a glance or two from those seated at the surrounding desks, but he doesn’t notice, too busy pulling out his phone in an attempt to address the problem. Stupid, this is all so stupid, and he can’t take it alone anymore. He sends a text to Kozume, waits for a reply. 

  
  


“Sorry for calling you out so suddenly, Kozume,” Akaashi says, handing him a canned iced coffee, and Kozume takes it, holds it between his hands. They stand on the rooftop of the publishing company’s building, Akaashi on his lunch break and Kozume stopping by of his own accord, self-employed and free to do whatever, whenever. A pleasant early spring day, but Kozume wears an oversized hoodie Akaashi recognizes as Kuroo’s, the sleeves baggy and bunched-up around his wrists. Always in cozy clothes, his apartment kept cool by the ever-running air conditioner, even in the cold seasons, and Akaashi envies Kozume’s ability to do and spend as he pleases. 

“You look a mess,” Kozume says, cracking open the can. “Everything good?” Always straight to the point, which Akaashi appreciates, though he can’t help but reach a hand up to flatten his hair, straighten his shirt. 

“I’m good,” Akaashi says while unwrapping an onigiri. A small expense as a result of his lateness, his failure to prepare a meal the night before. Along with Kozume’s coffee, another price to pay for his inability to deal with this confusion on his own, but he doesn’t mind, glad to see Kozume receptive to his little gift of sorts. Such a reliable friend, and Akaashi means it when he says he is good.

Kozume leans over the railing and Akaashi watches from a few steps away, more afraid of heights than he’d like to admit. “If you’re good then what’s the problem?” Kozume asks, looking at Akaashi over his shoulder. 

“There is no problem,” Akaashi says, because there isn’t. 

“Then why’d you call me out here.” 

Akaashi blinks, mouth full of rice. “Am I not allowed to call upon my friends for occasional companionship?” 

Kozume makes a face, something like pursed lips and furrowed brows. “Since when have you ever called upon any of us for companionship? It’s always Kuroo wedging his foot between your apartment door to prevent you from closing it on us.” 

“That is not true,” Akaashi says, all deadpan and like stating facts in a business meeting to hide the undertone of offense. On the sparse surface of his desk, a framed photo from graduation of him and his friends serves as the only personal touch to suggest Akaashi’s occupation of the space. He values his friends very much and they should know this. 

“You have a grain of rice on your chin.”

Akaashi frowns, wipes at his face. Kozume turns around, leans his back against the railing, arms propped up behind him. “Anyway,” he continues, “to get back to the issue at hand, what’s got you looking a mess? I know you have something to say, Akaashi, and your lunch break doesn’t last forever.” 

Caught between the decisions to eat the grain of rice to avoid being wasteful or to flick it off his finger, Akaashi takes a moment to respond, using the delay to gather his thoughts, which he fails to do, because what is he supposed to say without sounding pathetic? 

“I think,” Akaashi starts, to which Kozume responds, “Yes, that is nothing new.” 

“I  _ think _ ,” Akaashi starts again, “well, hey, do you remember that time you guys came over and we got pizza?”

“That could’ve been any time.”

“That  _ time  _ we ordered pizza from that new place last month? The one with the grand opening discount?”

“Oh,” Kozume says, “yeah, sure, what about it.” 

“Do you remember the delivery guy?”

“No.”

Akaashi stops, but he should have expected this, because who would remember? Who would remember a random pizza delivery employee from a month ago? It hits him then how ridiculous this all is, him calling upon his friend to waste their time during his lunch break to discuss someone they do not remember. Of course Kozume doesn’t remember, and Akaashi shouldn’t either.

“Of course you don’t,” Akaashi manages. “I don’t know why I brought that up. I’m sorry, I’m just wasting your time. Maybe you were right, Kozume. Since when do I ever take the initiative to hang out with you guys.” Defeated, he feels so defeated, and perhaps a little bit dramatic because he has no reason to feel defeated. Everyone has their own lives and concerns and his concerns with Bokuto are not Kozume’s. 

Kozume steps toward Akaashi, gives him a light punch on the shoulder. “Since when was this discussion about the state of our friendship? Who cares if I remember this dude or not, when clearly you do. Talk, Akaashi, before I go tell Oikawa about this.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t, but I would tell Kuroo, and you know he’d tell Oikawa.” 

“Well, go right ahead. It’s not like I have anything to hide, anyway.”

“Then why did you text just me instead of the group chat?” 

“Because I knew you’d be the only one who could make it.”

“Then why did you text when everyone was busy, unless it was something urgent?” 

Kozume has Akaashi caught, and rightfully so, because he’s right, everyone is busy, it’s the middle of the day on the first day of a new week and who is Akaashi to expect his friend to come at his beckon last minute? Defeated, still, but Akaashi decides to talk, if only out of respect for Kozume and the time he took out of his day to entertain Akaashi and his woes. Woes that shouldn’t be woes, but woes he has made them, and now he will share them with Kozume. 

“Well, that delivery guy from that one day just slept over at my apartment last night, actually.” Straight to the point, because that’s what Kozume prefers, but he chokes on his coffee, coughs a couple of times before collecting himself. 

“Hold on a second,” Kozume says, pounding on his chest. “Wait, no,  _ you _ —I’m sorry, but I’m letting you know in advance that I will be telling Kuroo about this.  _ Who  _ did you let sleepover at your apartment? Did he use your couch? Don’t tell me he used your couch.”

“He did not use my couch,” Akaashi says, then, “or my bed,” when Kozume’s eyes begin to further widen. “He just ended up falling asleep on my floor, okay? It’s not a big deal.” 

“What are you saying, Akaashi? Everything you do is always a big deal because you never just  _ do  _ something to do it. You’re going to have to elaborate.” 

“He’s a friend. We’re friends now.”

“Okay, and we’re friends, but you’ve never let me sleep over.” 

“You’ve never wanted to sleep over.” 

“Can I sleep over, then?” 

“Sure.”

“Kuroo’s coming with me, and so is Oikawa.”

“No.”

“See?”

Akaashi sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Three people versus one person is not the same.”

“Oikawa tries crashing on your couch all the time.” 

“Okay, but he’s Oikawa.” 

“Then what makes some random pizza delivery dude any different? Weren’t you and Oikawa roommates in your freshman year? You should be used to his presence by now.”

Akaashi looks at Kozume through narrowed eyes. “I’ve had enough of Oikawa in my personal space for a lifetime. Why does everything always end up being about Oikawa? I’m trying to tell you about Bokuto-san.”

“Bokuto-san,” Kozume repeats. “Always so formal. Is he older than you? Are you into older guys?”

“I am  _ not _ ,” Akaashi starts, but he stops himself, because there’s no use in arguing, in sounding defensive when he has nothing to defend himself against. “I don’t know how old he is, but he’s probably as old as Kuroo and Oikawa. He’s just delivering pizza as a side job. He’s trying to go pro in volleyball.” 

“An athlete.”

“Yes.” 

“You’re very interesting, Akaashi. I feel like I’m always learning something new about you.” 

Akaashi resists the urge to grumble under his breath, because it’s always “I didn’t know this about you, Akaashi,” or “Wow, Akaashi, you’re into that?” Like he always takes people by surprise, which he shouldn’t, especially with Kozume, because they’ve been friends for how many years now? Akaashi thinks of himself as an open book, all thoughts and emotions accessible, nothing to hide. Nothing to hide, but any sort of in-depth conversation reveals something he didn’t know was hidden. Not that Bokuto being an athlete has anything to do with Akaashi. 

“Kozume,” Akaashi says, a subtle shift in his tonem “do you think I’m a good friend?” 

“Well, yeah. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t be friends with you.” 

“How am I a good friend?”

A pause as Kozume contemplates, but it doesn’t take long for him to answer. “For one, you’re very tolerant. And you’re kind, which sort of has to do with your tolerance.”

Akaashi knows he is tolerant, because it helped him get through school, helps him get through work. But does the ability to tolerate apply to friends? Aren’t friends chosen because of one’s appreciation for them rather than tolerance? Akaashi appreciates his friends, but does his appreciation come off as tolerance? “So, I’m tolerant,” Akaashi says slowly, thinking through his words, “but does that feel like friendship to you? Like an expression of friendship?”

“Well, you’re tolerant in that you let us come over uninvited, and you let us take over your living room. And if we want something, you get it for us, or when Oikawa has someone new to cry over, you let him—that sort of thing.” 

“I enable.” 

“Sure, if that’s how you want to put it.”

“I’m an enabler.” 

“Please, Akaashi, I thought you were the smart one of the group. What happened to using your brain.” Kozume walks over to the trash bins next to the rooftop entrance, places the coffee can in the recycling one. “You’re a giver, Akaashi. You give your time and your effort and your resources, which you’re otherwise very frugal with. Is that what you’re having a hard time with? With Bokuto? Do you think you’re not being a good friend?”

Akaashi meets Kozume at the door to the stairwell, lunch break almost over. “Not exactly, because whenever we see each other he says something about being glad to be my friend. But I feel like I’m… missing something, like I’m not being the friend that I should be. Except I did let him sleep over, which I’ve never let anybody do before, so isn’t that already enough? Why do I feel the need to do more?” All these questions Akaashi didn’t know he needed answered, didn’t know he had in him to be answered, and he realizes maybe he isn’t such an open book, even to himself, after all. Embarrassing, it’s all so embarrassing, and he’s glad he called on Kozume, who will never judge. 

“How often do you see him?” A question Akaashi does not want to answer.

“Maybe once a week or so.” He begins to walk down the stairs, and Kozume trails behind. His voice echoes through the shaft, repeating back to him his lie. 

“Because you invite him over?”

“Something like that.” 

“Is that why there’s all that pizza from Pizza in the break room fridge?”

Akaashi stops walking, looks back at Kozume. “What were you doing in the break room?”

“You were still working and I wanted water.”

“And nobody said anything.”

“People tend to not talk to me.”

Akaashi resumes his walking, because there’s no point in questioning Kozume, who does what he wants and gets away with it. All his friends, in possession of some sort of power that makes them themselves, and Akaashi feels mildly irked that his identifying trait is his tolerance. 

“You should try hanging out with Bokuto when he’s not delivering your pizza.”

“We did,” Akaashi says, “last night, in my apartment.”

“After he delivered your pizza, right?”

Akaashi, caught again. “Yeah….” 

“You’re doing that thing, Akaashi, that business relationship thing. You can’t talk to people only in organized, formal settings and expect them to think you’re interested in seeing them elsewhere.” 

“But my apartment isn’t an organized, formal setting.”

Kozume sighs, shakes his head, though Akaashi does not see him. “You should go out with him, Akaashi. Like, outside of your apartment and outside of Pizza. The act of going out, even once, will show him your interest in him beyond the workplace. Once you establish a relationship that isn’t work related, maybe then he’ll stop sitting so heavy on your mind.” 

Akaashi takes a moment to digest Kozume’s words, and though he still does not quite understand, he smiles. A subtle thing tilting up the corners of his lips, because the way Kozume speaks, his ability to explain in terms suitable for specific audiences—Akaashi admires him so, appreciates the sense of his mind. 

“Maybe,” Akaashi says. “Maybe, that might work. Thanks, Kozume. You’re actually the smart friend. You know that, right?” 

“Don’t flatter me,” Kozume says. “It’s weird.” 

“I can’t say nice things about my friends?”

“Not to my face, you can’t.” 

“But when Kuroo says nice things to your face it’s okay.” 

Kozume, unimpressed, noticeably shifts into closed-off mode, the person he reserves for strangers and acquaintances. “Akaashi, I’m leaving now. Your break is over. I’m telling Oikawa all about this.” 

Akaashi opens the door to the floor of his office, holds it for Kozume, who walks right past him, straight toward the elevator, not bothering to say goodbye.

A moment of satisfaction for Akaashi, and he smiles again, because for once it is Kozume who’s been caught.

  
  


Despite the messy morning, Akaashi has a good day, leaving work a few minutes early as a result of completing his responsibilities before their deadlines. With the onset of spring, the sun’s retreat delays with each day, and Akaashi walks out to a street still covered in daylight, allowing for a quick and pleasant trip to the bus stop. 

Not quite 4:02, when Akaashi’s bus arrives, so he stands under the bus stop shelter watching the cars and people and life of downtown, a complete picture created by unrelated, individual existences. A girl walking her dog here, someone leaving work in the building over there, and the mailman, delivering his final packages for the day. Such an interesting thing, the way people come together in chance ways, and Akaashi thinks about Bokuto, about their own chance encounter. A chance encounter like being placed with Oikawa in a university dorm and meeting Kozume in an empty clubroom. Chance encounters that incite such change in Akaashi’s life, change he didn’t know he needed, and he is grateful, satisfied, somewhere close to feeling complete. 

A brief moment of inspiration and Akaashi is calling Bokuto before he can change his mind. A Monday afternoon, which means Bokuto has probably been kicked out of the gym by now, and he still has an hour or two until his shift at Pizza begins, so the chances of him not answering are slim. Unless he doesn’t answer calls from unknown numbers, and Akaashi begins to worry, to think that perhaps he should have sent a text to let Bokuto know he got his number, but the ringing of the phone ends with a click, and Akaashi hears a muffled “Hello?” through the line.

Caught off guard, Akaashi manages a “Bokuto-san,” and then, after a pause, “Bokuto-san, hi, this is—”

“Akaashi? Is this Akaashi? Only Akaashi calls me Bokuto-san. Akaashi, is this you? Did you get my number? I wrote it on your notepad on my way out this morning! Hi! How are you! Did you get to work on time?”

Warm, his voice, so warm, and Akaashi suddenly finds the sun suffocating, too strong. What makes Bokuto so open, so willing? And willing to do what, Akaashi does not know, but the first word that comes to his mind,  _ willing _ . Or maybe it’s Akaashi that’s willing, willing to break his rules for Bokuto, willing to watch his bus pass by him as he finds himself trapped in place by Bokuto’s voice. Oh, this is so much worse than he thought. 

“Hi, Bokuto-san, this is Akaashi.” All Akaashi can bring himself to say, but it is enough for Bokuto, who carries on as he does, never-ending sentences and life laced in every word and Akaashi is  _ living _ , so alive, and how embarrassing this all is, but he just can’t stop himself. 

He waits for the next bus, entertaining himself with the sound of Bokuto’s voice, and when the conversation comes to an end, bus arriving and Bokuto needing both his hands to help his roommates carry a new refrigerator into their house, Akaashi finally does as Kozume suggested.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says with a burst of exhilaration, of bravery, “would you like to go out sometime? Maybe go see a movie or eat something other than pizza? If you’re not busy, of course, which I know you are, and—”

“Akaashi!” Bokuto says, and Akaashi has to pull his phone away from his ear a little, the sudden loud a bit much to take in. “Akaashi! The fridge is here! But yes! Text me, okay? I’ll even take a day off of work—have Komi cover for me or something, but then he’d just be doing twice the work, and actually, no he’d just get mad—but yes! Akaashi, I have to go, but text me! Bye, Akaashi!” And the line ends, leaving Akaashi with the echo of Bokuto’s frantic breaths and words bouncing through his mind. Bokuto, so full of life, and it lingers with Akaashi, a subtle pounding in his head, a beat quicker than his heart will ever manage on its own. 

The bus pulls up and Akaashi is brought back to the moment but still everything feels so quick, so sudden. Akaashi gets on the bus, swipes his card, moves toward the back, and the bus moves, and so does he, everything moving like a blur out the bus windows and through his ears and his head still pounds but this is life, living, and Akaashi feels so alive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, repeating myself as always: yo let me know what you think even if it's just to tell me how terrible this is like. talk to me! i want to hear your thoughts! let this be an interactive experience make me feel like i'm not posting into the void
> 
> also go read my other bkak one shot thing! i put much effort into it and i want it to be read so like. even if you hate it. just tell me that so i know it's being engaged with ok i'm done now lmao if you're still reading this bless you good night


	5. on a friday evening out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a lil fyi i changed kenma's name to kozume for like. consistency purposes because apparently i can't tell the difference between first and last names and also akaashi would call him kozume like obviously because akaashi so. there's that
> 
> also this is kinda uh shorter than usual so sorry to let you down if you care about that djsfkdslj

Akaashi is a giver, or so Kozume says, but it sticks with Akaashi, and now he stands on the bus thinking, wondering how to be a giver. Which, yes, he gives, because he has the resources, the desire to provide for his friends, but does that make him a giver? When his friends ask, he gives, but rarely does he think to give in advance. Even with Bokuto, the tip and the taxi money and the umbrella, all given out of necessity. Akaashi doesn’t give without reason. He does not think he is a giver. 

And he is okay with this, not being a giver, but if not that, then what is he? What makes him a good friend? His tolerance, perhaps, but he does not tolerate Bokuto or Kozume. Kuroo and Oikawa, maybe a little bit, but an amicable sort of tolerance, a tolerance defined by his appreciation for them and all they are, even the parts of them that may be over-the-top, because Akaashi can be over-the-top, too. Over-the-top in his thinking in this moment so he makes himself stop, allows himself to be transported on the bus as buses do, and just that, a moment of transportation. 

A voluntary day out in a long time, much to the chagrin of his budget, but days out with friends are needed as much as days in alone, and Akaashi has had too many days in alone. Last weekend, and the weekend before, too, spent alone in preparation for this day, primarily for the sake of his budget. Oikawa would send photos in the groupchat of a bowling night, a day in Kozume’s apartment, clearly unappreciated by Kozume, who sits with his back to the camera in all the photos, and Akaashi would smile to himself and reply with messages like “$5 that Kuroo will win” and “I want a Kozume selfie” and turn off his phone, go back to reviewing manuscripts and responding to emails. His mother tells him he should get a cat to keep him company, because telling him to get a girlfriend would be asking for too much, but cats cost money, and Akaashi already has enough companions to spend on. Weekends alone are but a natural part of life, and Akaashi accepts them, tolerates them, if only to make the days spent with friends, with family, feel all the more pleasant. 

The evening is warm for an early spring day, so Akaashi wears a baseball tee, something casual, something he’d put on during a trip to the grocery store or to the bookstore a few blocks down from his place. Casual, because that’s what this is, and his work clothes would have suggested formality, which Akaashi does not want Bokuto to think. An outfit decision that took more time than it should have, and resulted in unnecessary probing from his colleagues, who couldn’t help but gawk at his change in attire on his way out from work. A decision that made him leave his work clothes at the office, in a bag under his desk, because there would be no time for him to make a quick trip home, and to carry around a bag of clothes while on his first outing with Bokuto would prove nothing but a hassle, a cause for questions from Bokuto he would rather not answer. Everything planned out perfectly, so Akaashi has nothing to worry about, and he assures himself of this as he steps off the bus in front of the theater. 

For a Friday evening, the streets bustle as expected, and Akaashi feels, very briefly, like another person, a person who goes out on the weekends with friends and spends and lives as he pleases, freed from the expectations of weekdays and the constrictions of surviving in a capitalist society. And though Fridays technically qualify as weekdays, today is a weekend for Bokuto, one of his days off from working at Pizza, so Akaashi makes it a weekend for himself, too. A weekend which begins around 5 p.m., at this moment, initiated by the wave of Bokuto’s hands as Akaashi walks toward the theater and spots him standing by the entrance, all big and bright as usual. 

“Akaashi! Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto says, and Akaashi notes his attire, grey shirt and black shorts and casual, and he feels relieved. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” 

The noise of the streets brings Bokuto closer, and Akaashi catches a whiff of drugstore deodorant, a blatantly masculine scent, probably from a brand advertised as Just For Men. “I’ve been here since I got out of the gym, actually! Walking around and stuff to pass time because I couldn’t possibly wait at home because what if you showed up early? Then you would have been waiting alone and during that time we could have been doing something and this is all just so exciting, Akaashi, don’t you think? Look at us, hanging out, you, a writer, and me, a volleyball player that’s going to be famous! What a fun pair, don’t you think? I’ll give you a shoutout on TV and you’ll give me a shoutout in your book and it will all just be so funny,” and he laughs and Akaashi can’t bring himself to tell Bokuto that he doesn’t write books, simply edits them, because Bokuto laughing loud enough to draw attention to himself gives Akaashi a different sort of satisfaction, satisfaction probably felt by people who go out on weekends regularly. 

“A fun idea, Bokuto-san. I look forward to seeing you on TV.”

“Oh!” Bokuto says, eyes widening. “Maybe, one day, if I have a game in Tokyo or something, you can come watch me play! And then when we win and it’s over and I’m doing interviews you’ll be standing next to me all proud and then you’ll be on TV, too! Your friends will be so jealous! I can’t wait, Akaashi!” Bokuto smiles so wide at the thought, eyes closed, and Akaashi watches him, admires his unabashed hope and pleasure.

And then they’re walking into the movie theater and Akaashi pays for the tickets because this outing was his idea and he insists, really, and Bokuto says he’ll pay for the snacks, but Akaashi says he doesn’t want any. 

“You don’t eat snacks while watching movies?” Bokuto asks. “But that’s one of the best things about coming to the movies! Where else can you eat popcorn?” 

At home, Akaashi thinks, but he says, “I’m okay right now, Bokuto-san. I had a late lunch at work.” A lie, but Akaashi couldn’t possibly allow Bokuto to spend his money on him for overpriced theater snacks with zero nutritional value. 

“Then do you want to go out to eat something after the movie? I can pay for that instead!” 

Akaashi understands, now, why he is a giver, for he cannot allow himself to be a taker. To take from Bokuto or his friends when he has a penthouse and a stable job with a decent income—he’d much rather provide physically and receive emotionally. That is, to see his friends smile, watch them enjoy themselves with what he gives. To be a taker wouldn’t provide him the same satisfaction or peace of mind. Which, maybe Bokuto feels the same way, wants to be a giver, too, but Akaashi knows he won’t respond as he should, the guilt of making Bokuto pay for him eating at his mind. 

“Maybe we can do that,” Akaashi says, and it is enough to appease Bokuto, who buys a small bucket of popcorn for himself before they head into their theater. 

They take their seats and Akaashi smells it again, Bokuto’s deodorant, or maybe it’s cologne, but it’s enough for Akaashi to realize how  _ close _ they are, the broadness of Bokuto’s frame, the space his shoulders take up. An athlete, through and through, and Akaashi worries the movie he chose may not be to Bokuto’s liking. Something animated, family-friendly, because to recommend a foreign indie horror film might have come off as a bit pretentious, though Akaashi  _ would _ like to see it. Then again, to profile Bokuto based on his appearance—he agreed to the movie, after all, during a text message discussion. Though Akaashi suspects Bokuto would agree to anything he suggests.

“Do you want some?” Bokuto whispers over the playing trailer, breath tickling Akaashi’s ear.

Akaashi shakes his head, but Bokuto holds the bucket of popcorn toward him, rattles it in a way that sounds so loud to Akaashi in the quiet theater that he feels like he has no choice but to take a handful of the greasy kernels. Bokuto watches Akaashi, waits for him to put the popcorn in his mouth, only looking away once Akaashi eats to his satisfaction. 

The kernels are salty on Akaashi’s tongue, but their soft exteriors melt on his tongue, absorbing the excess salt, and he understands why people enjoy popcorn during their movies. Except by the time the movie starts Bokuto has already finished his popcorn and Akaashi has to take the bucket from him and set it on the floor, Bokuto’s fidgety hands crumpling the cardboard and making too much noise. 

“I really like cartoons, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, his voice a half-whisper. “I hope this one isn’t sad, though. Movies are always so sad these days.” 

Akaashi nods in response, wonders if he’ll have to tell Bokuto to be quiet during the movie, but once the opening credits end and the characters start talking Bokuto goes silent, focused eyes made clear and golden by the illuminated screen. 

And Akaashi pays attention, too, watches the story proceed, appreciates the watercolor backgrounds and the blend of traditional art with CGI. He allows himself to be enveloped in the craft of cinema, the ability to tell stories visually, vocally, musically, the way they all operate simultaneously through pixels projected on a screen. Though he will never be a master storyteller, himself, he finds great joy in the art, in being able to engage with such media on his own or with others—an experience both universal and personal. In this moment, with Bokuto, in the half-filled theater, Akaashi feels it a personal experience, one between him, the screen, and Bokuto. A strange sort of intimacy that comes with certain types of cinema, and the hand-drawn art on the screen exudes  _ personal _ . 

Personal, which turns something a little more, something Akaashi cannot describe, because the movie ends up being sad and Bokuto starts crying and Akaashi doesn’t have tissues and the movie is still playing, requiring quiet and attention. Though Bokuto turns out to be a soft crier, only noticeable by the occasional sniffle, sniffles that sound suppressed, and Akaashi wonders how often Bokuto gets sad. 

  
  


“That was so good,” Bokuto says while they walk out of the theater, rubbing his eyes, and Akaashi says nothing, discarding the popcorn tub and reaching for his phone to check the time. “But way too sad. I knew it would be, too. They’re always making movies sad now! Did you think it was sad, Akaashi? I cried, did you see? I saw you and you weren’t crying. Do you cry, Akaashi?” 

“Sometimes,” Akaashi says, “but not during movies.”

“I always cry during movies,” Bokuto says, “which is why none of my friends ever want to go see movies with me. But now I have someone to go see movies with! You like movies, right, Akaashi? We should do that again! But no horror because that scares me, unless you’re willing to hold my hand, and don’t make fun of me when I close my eyes, okay?” 

“Sure, Bokuto-san. I’ll try to find us a happy film next time.”

“We can watch whatever, Akaashi! I like sad movies, too. I just cry a little, that’s all,” and Bokuto looks at Akaashi, eyes a little red but he’s perfectly fine, so quick to bounce back to normal Bokuto, but it was just a movie, and movie tears aren’t the same as reality tears, right?

“Are you hungry, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks once they’re outside of the theater, back in the city streets. The sun has set and the streetlamps cast an orange glow over them, painting Bokuto the color of warmth, sunny without the sun. Akaashi wants to feed him. 

Bokuto stretches, arms over his head. “I’m always down to eat. I love eating! Food is so fun, don’t you think? There’s just so much to choose from!” 

“What’s your favorite food, Bokuto-san?” 

“Easy,” Bokuto says, grin wide like he just figured out a trivia question. “I love yakiniku. Meat is so good! Fresh off the grill? Akaashi, don’t you think meat is great? I can eat  _ pounds  _ of it!” and he gestures widely, as if his sonorous voice isn’t enough to make his point. “Oh, Akaashi, there’s this place nearby—I go there with my friends sometimes, or I did with my volleyball team, but I don’t have one anymore, but I will! Soon! There’s this place! Their meat is the freshest! Want to go there? I can take you there! You like meat, don’t you, Akaashi?”

“Meat is good,” Akaashi says, which it is, though rather expensive, but he doesn’t say this, because Bokuto, so excited and already walking in the direction of the restaurant and how can he say no? Once in a while, a night out is okay. Eating out can be okay. Akaashi has the funds, he does, and aren’t they there to be spent, anyway? Overthinking the price of one’s mortgage, sure, but this is meat, and Akaashi is with Bokuto, and this is but one night, meant to be fun. Akaashi is okay with this. He gladly follows.

  
  


An hour wait to be seated, but Bokuto pays no mind, eager to show Akaashi around in stores he wandered through earlier that day. First, a candle shop, which, Bokuto doesn’t think he really likes candles, but isn’t this cotton candy scented one fun? Do you think they put real sugar in it, Akaashi? And Akaashi smells the various candles Bokuto finds fun, the scents all so strong, and Akaashi doesn’t think he likes candles, either. 

A lingerie store Bokuto giggles through, but he admires the craftsmanship required to produce such fine lace bodices, and he thinks he’d like to try one on some day, though he’ll probably never be able to find his size. Akaashi stands by, follows Bokuto, nods at each of his observations, comforted by the bright of Bokuto, his voice and presence and unadulterated joy. Whenever Bokuto picks something up, a necklace or an apple peeler or a pair of socks, gazes at it with interest, Akaashi offers to buy, and Bokuto always says no. “I don’t need this, Akaashi,” he says, and he puts the item down, moving on to the next one to tinker with. 

Eventually they end up in a sportswear store, one with multiple stories, a popular spot on the block. Every square inch of the store covered in sports gear and apparel, much more stuff than Akaashi thinks one would ever need. Bokuto beelines for the volleyball section, picks up a ball and tests its weight. Akaashi looks at a pair of shorts on display, feels the fabric, soft and light. He looks at the price tag, wonders why anyone would ever buy such a thing to sweat so much in. 

“These are nice,” he observes, and Bokuto walks over, feels the shorts, too.

“Yeah, that’s one of the top brands. Only a pro would think to pay for these. My whole uniform costs this much!” Bokuto says and laughs, but there’s clear longing in his eyes, and Akaashi wants to fill it. 

“Hey, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi starts, and Bokuto looks up, waits for Akaashi. “Bokuto-san, is there anything you’d be willing to spend extra on?” A genuine question.

Bokuto thinks, and Akaashi watches him, watches the way his eyebrows twitch a little, inching to furrow. “Like on volleyball stuff?” A pause. “I like my knee pads. I have to get the extra long ones, you know? The ones that only cover my knees pinch at my thighs and it hurts. They get so sweaty, though, it’s crazy! I sweat so much behind the knees, Akaashi! Isn’t that funny? And the more I wash them the more they stretch out, so I have to buy knee pads more often.” 

Akaashi nods, imagines Bokuto in his volleyball uniform, knee pads long like sports tights. Does he fall often? Does it hurt? Do his knee pads protect him? 

“Do you fall a lot while playing, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto laughs. “Sure I do! But it’s always so cool, like when I’m saving a ball or I hit a spike so hard I lose my footing! You should see me, Akaashi! Falling is a sign of strength, of me giving my all,” and he mimics a spike, hand hitting at the air and Akaashi feels it, the way he creates a little gust that ruffles his hair. 

“I admire you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, though he meant to think it, but the thought was too strong. Bokuto’s confidence, determination, such new things to Akaashi, whose confidence depends on that which he can do, which he has proven himself capable of doing. Determination, which Akaashi has very little of, because where his life has taken him so far, a comfortable place, and he wants to stay in the comfort, sees no need to take himself further. Yet the way Bokuto speaks, like he’s already gone pro, already has his team and his fame and his fortune—Akaashi wants to go there with him, watch him bask in it all. He wonders if he has a place in this future that Bokuto treats as the now, but he shakes the thought away, because to think such things is overstepping. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto says. “You’re so nice, you know that? I admire you, too! You’re so cool! Don’t you think—” and his phone chimes so he pulls it out of his pocket, looks at the screen. “Akaashi! The restaurant says we should head over because we’re next on the waitlist. Come on, Akaashi, let’s go!” He begins to jog toward the exit, slows down once he realizes he left Akaashi behind. 

Akaashi catches up with a brisk walk, and Bokuto bounces on the balls of his feet the entire way to the restaurant, so ready for meat and he hopes Akaashi is, too. And he is, which he says, and Bokuto smiles and Akaashi has never wanted meat more, if only for Bokuto. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro what is pacing at this point i'm just like. whatever happens happens so apologies if this just seems all over the place also i'm getting a bit sick of my writing style it's so repetitive hELP 
> 
> but forreal tho thank you for reading this far like bless you


	6. on knee pads pt i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is late and short and just....i'm sorry for letting my audience of 2 down lmao thanks if you're still reading this product of my brainworms

The best resources are free ones, and Akaashi uses them to his advantage, whether they be the library by the park or the online databases provided by his workplace. Though Akaashi doesn’t particularly like research, he’ll make the occasional search on a database while going over a manuscript, if only to put to use his free membership, his membership paid for him by the publishing company. Otherwise, his account would sit unused, a waste of money, and the company has the money to spend, yes, but money wasted is money wasted, and Akaashi does not waste money.

Which explains his decision to use the databases for non-work purposes, because he rarely uses them for work, so might as well use them when he actually wants to, right? For little personal research projects, like university research outside of university. Putting the skills he acquired in college to use. So his search starts simple, just one word, “volleyball,” and soon he finds himself reading about its history, its origin in the United States, its eventual spread to Asia. Basically a sport of the Philippines, and Akaashi thinks about how a “Filipino bomb” became a “spike,” but a spike from Bokuto probably resembles something of an explosion, more like a bomb. A Bokuto bomb. Akaashi hopes to see him spike someday. 

But scholarly sources only take him so far, so he ends up on YouTube, watches international volleyball matches, familiarizes himself with the game. Another free resource Akaashi appreciates, YouTube, but the ability to get lost in the website makes it rather dangerous, dangerous enough for even Akaashi, who ends up watching videos until 2 a.m. before realizing his eyes are closing and he has work the next day. A nightly routine that repeats itself through the end of the week, and Akaashi comes home Friday evening exhausted, ready to sleep, but in bed he reaches for his phone, clicks into the YouTube app, eyes drooping but the videos keep him awake.

A few videos in and he returns to one of a compilation of the top ten set and spike plays during the World Championships from 2000-2010. Akaashi thinks he could have been a setter in another life, fitting for a position of control, of establishing the pace and direction. He thinks about setting to Bokuto, about Bokuto hitting the ball, his hand against the leather creating a loud explosion, an impact that reverberates through the stadium. A hyperbolic image, perhaps, and Akaashi shakes his head, blames all the fantasy manuscripts for interfering with his imagination. 

He swipes out of YouTube, goes to his text messages, scrolls through his conversations with Bokuto from the past week. A conversation that began with Akaashi asking Bokuto questions about volleyball, from libero rules to when Bokuto started playing volleyball, what made him continue with it. Akaashi asking about uniform materials and top brands versus standard ones, the quality of this knee pad over that. Knee pads, another thing Akaashi did extensive research on, as evident in his saved internet search tabs, a sizable scroll of websites advertising and selling knee pads. 

Though falls in volleyball are rarely accidental, Akaashi thinks about Bokuto falling, the weight of him hitting the ground. Another dramatic thought, because Bokuto has little reason to fall as a wing spiker, always up in the air, pushing off the ground, but if—when—he does fall, surely it’s not a pleasant feeling. What does it mean, the physical act of falling on purpose? Does it hurt as much as an accident? Is it worth the pain to save the ball? After watching fall compilations and best save clips, Akaashi finds the protection of knee pads all the more necessary, and he worries about the state of Bokuto’s, how they stretch in the wash, no longer capable of their peak performance. There must be some material somewhere that doesn’t stretch out as quickly, some brand of knee pad designed for Bokuto-type bodies and movements and falls. 

A thought that troubled Akaashi all week, but to ask Bokuto about his knee pads, about falling and hurting and saving—such a personal thing, so he refrains, keeps his knee pad searches to himself, a task he returns to after reaching the end of his text conversation with Bokuto. The best knee pads, Akaashi finds, have breathable but firm material, have foam pads that are gentle on the knees and capable of absorbing the full shock of falling, have higher price tags as a result of the prior reasons. Price tags which won’t put one in debt, but to have to purchase knee pads regularly adds up, and Akaashi wonders how much Bokuto has spent on knee pads in his lifetime. Because Bokuto requires knee pads that extend over his thighs, the additional material increases the cost, but Akaashi understands his decision to spend more for better protection. Without safe knees, Bokuto wouldn’t be able to jump as high, run as quickly, fall as willingly. 

Falling willingly, such a strange concept to Akaashi, who equates “fall” with “fail,” because falling is the failure to stand up, to remain upright. Does Bokuto’s willingness to fall make him more open-minded, capable of taking risks, better at volleyball? What sort of risks does Akaashi take on a regular day for his job? Proposing a particular book for acquisition, maybe, but proposing books is but a required part of his job, and volleyball doesn’t necessarily require falling. To pursue a sport as a profession is a risk of its own, and perhaps the same could be said about pursuing a career in publishing, but Akaashi’s job has proven itself nothing but safe, stable, reliable. Will Bokuto’s job be safe, too? 

Safer with better knee pads, Akaashi thinks, and he moves from his phone to his laptop, forces himself to come to a final decision about the best available knee pads according to his data-driven research. A popular and reputable brand for volleyball gear boasts a reliable pair of thigh-high knee pads for around fifty dollars, prior to tax, which Akaashi finds a bit too pricey, but all the reviews praise their proper protection, their flexible and strong material. Fifty dollars to ensure the safety of one’s knees, but with frequent use, Akaashi calculates the cost of knee pads to be more like 200 dollars each year, should Bokuto use and wash them as frequently as he says. Like with a standard career, volleyball days off consist of holidays and break days during off-season. The required training hours may allow for time off on weekends, but Akaashi knows Bokuto uses every day he can to practice, which means at least 350 days of each year are spent at the gym for an average of five hours per day. Daily wear of knee pads leads to quicker deterioration of knee pad quality, so Akaashi adds four pairs of knee pads to his cart, clicks to check out. Two hundred plus dollars on knee pads, which, with his current income, Bokuto probably cannot afford to spend. Akaashi, however, with a salary job—helping Bokuto achieve his own career goals would be the best course of action, and that starts with ensuring his protection on his path toward his future. 

A clear decision requiring little thought, and Akaashi enters his card information into the website, successfully purchases four pairs of knee pads, which should arrive in five to seven business days. No longer weighed down by the thought of Bokuto shattering his knees, Akaashi puts away his laptop, sets his phone down on his nightstand. For the first time all week he sleeps, and peacefully so. 

  
  


Five to seven business days turns into eleven days, both business and otherwise, and Akaashi feels his anticipation grow with each passing day, because he fears for Bokuto’s safety in the meantime and what if the knee pads don’t fit right? But Bokuto has his own knee pads, his ones not provided by Akaashi, and for all Akaashi knows, Bokuto buys the same brand he did. 

Eleven days of working and waiting and working again, with a little time in between to text Bokuto, order pizza to see Bokuto for a few minutes, text Bokuto again. Akaashi spends a Saturday in his apartment with his friends playing card games and watching Kuroo get drunk, spends a Sunday night up late talking with Bokuto on his living room floor, a repeat of their night together a few weeks before. From work to weekend, the routine of life continues, until the box of knee pads shows up at Akaashi’s apartment and he sits on the floor in front of the foyer, staring at the collection of knee pads before him. 

How great of an idea it seemed in the moment, to purchase knee pads for Bokuto, who deserves quality gear with guaranteed protection. And Akaashi can’t help but admire the craftsmanship, stretching the taut fabric with his fingers, pushing down on the foam pads with his thumbs. He contemplates putting them on, tells himself no, because these are for Bokuto, a gift, and gifts should be given new. 

But what is Akaashi doing buying Bokuto gifts? For his birthday or a holiday, sure, just as Akaashi would for his friends, but to purchase items unprovoked—Akaashi spent 200 dollars on knee pads for Bokuto like he spends 20 dollars on his friends for corner store snacks, and only now does he realize this. Friends, plural, and Bokuto, but one person, one person worth more than Akaashi’s personal expenses budget for the month, and oh, god, Akaashi  _ really  _ has a problem.

“I’m losing it,” he says into the quiet of his apartment. “Oh, Mother, help me, I’m losing it.” 

The knee pads sit heavy in his hands and he drops them, puts them all back into the box. Too late now, Akaashi is too late, to return the knee pads and pretend this never happened, to reject his own decision. Akaashi never makes a decision without thinking. He thought this one through. His budget, broken for Bokuto, and Bokuto is not an emergency expense, a flat tire or a broken bone or a leaky pipe. To admit to the truth of this decision—merely entertaining the thought makes Akaashi dizzy. He flops down on his back, hits his head a little too hard against the floor.

Maybe I’m the one who needs knee pads, he thinks, for my head. Head pads. And pads for the heart. What sort of protection exists for this type of fall? 

Akaashi lies on the floor, eyes closed, head a little tender, but it’s good, a distraction, and he waits, lets time pass until the pain in his head subsides, until he no longer thinks he needs knee pads or head pads or heart pads. A buzz of his phone travels through the wood flooring, reaches the back of his head, a subtle vibration. He opens his eyes, grabs his phone, screen illuminated in the dark, and he wonders how long he’s been lying down. 

8:03 p.m. and a message from Bokuto with a photo attached. “Look at this cat!!!!” the text says, and Akaashi looks at the included selfie of the upper half of Bokuto’s head beside a blurry cat walking on a wall, clearly uninterested in the camera. From the way Bokuto’s eyebrows sit, Akaashi can complete the image, imagines Bokuto smiling, a proud sort of expression, one that says, Look what I found! The clearest part of the image, Bokuto’s eyebrows, like the camera knew what Akaashi wanted to see. Akaashi, deadpan and neutral, envious of Bokuto’s expressive eyebrows, expressive face. Envious, but not because he wants to be expressive, himself. Look at this cat, Bokuto said, but Akaashi only sees Bokuto, only wants to see Bokuto. 8:03 p.m. on a Tuesday, which means Bokuto is at work, probably on his break, a break which won’t last long, and Akaashi sits up, clicks on Bokuto’s name, then his phone number. A ring before Bokuto answers with a “Did you see, Akaashi? Did you see what I just sent you? I ran into him on my way to work! It took me a bunch of times before I could get that picture of him.”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, barely comprehending Bokuto, only aware of the sound of his voice, how warm it sounds. “Bokuto-san, are you busy?” 

“Tuesdays are never busy,” Bokuto says, so clear and casual, because this is a normal conversation, this is a normal phone conversation, but Akaashi feels  _ so _ …. “I’m just sitting here with Komi. I don’t think we’ve had an order in, like, twenty minutes? Komi’s been on YouTube this whole time, though, so it’s been kind of boring. What about you, Akaashi? What are you doing? Did you like the photo?”

“May I come over, Bokuto-san?”

“Are you bored, too, Akaashi? Did you finish all your work? Come over, Akaashi! Come hang out with me! And if I get a delivery you can come with me! They’re never far—it’ll be fun! I can split my paycheck, too, if you—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, interrupts, and he feels bad about it, but something about this moment, the shaky feeling tickling his body, like he can’t hold back, and hold back  _ what _ , he doesn’t know, but, “Bokuto-san, may I come over? I have something for you.” 

A sound from Bokuto’s end, something like surprise. “For me? You got something for me? Akaashi, I want to see! Come over! Wow, for me! Komi, Akaashi’s coming over!” and his voice strays from the phone, distracted as he yells something incomprehensible to Komi, who complains something incomprehensible back. 

Akaashi hangs up, still lying on the floor, and he smiles, because  _ Bokuto _ , his  _ voice _ , and his excitement, so infectious. Such a wonderful thing, Bokuto and his voice and his excitement, a new experience to Akaashi, who’s never felt that sort of  _ life  _ for himself. His budget, a pressing matter put on the back burner of his mind, yelling at Akaashi to come back, to pay attention, but all he can think is  _ Bokuto _ , and he stands up, decides to change before heading out. 

Akaashi never makes a decision without thinking. He thought this one through, and right now, in this moment, he feels it is a good one. 


	7. on knee pads pt ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought i'd just attach this to the end of the last part because it seemed right that way but then what if nobody reads it because i don't know how notifs work on this website so anyway here it is in its separate form

Akaashi walks up to Pizza with a grocery bag of knee pads in hand, Komi and Bokuto visible through the shop window. He stops for a moment, watches as Bokuto leans over Komi’s shoulder to get a closer look at his phone screen, Komi responding by squirming away from Bokuto’s hover. Friends being friends, and Akaashi thinks about the times he, too, has to distance himself from Oikawa, so touchy, and Kuroo, who jokingly punches Akaashi’s shoulder, unaware that his fist actually hurts. Such a wonderful thing, friendship, and Akaashi feels pleasant, warm, satisfied with himself and his friends and Bokuto. He walks into the shop without a stutter, wills himself to keep his expression neutral. 

At the sound of the bell tinkling above the door, Bokuto and Komi stop their banter, and Akaashi feels he has interrupted something, but Bokuto, like a puppy excited by every little noise, forgets about their conversation to move onto the next one, the one that begins with him exclaiming, “Akaashi! You’re here! Komi, I told you he’d come!”

“I never said he wouldn’t,” Komi says, but his words fall on deaf ears—Bokuto too busy talking about how he knew Akaashi would come—though this doesn’t seem to faze him. “Hello, Akaashi,” he says, and Akaashi says, “Hello, Komi-san” back. 

Akaashi likes Komi, likes how he matches the energy of the people around him, receptive to everyone’s tendencies. Level-headed with Akaashi, exuberant with Bokuto, and right now, with the both of them in front of him, he retreats to the back room to fold pizza boxes because they should have been doing that in the first place and Bokuto, I won’t be folding yours this time, so you better learn how to do it right before Friday. “It was nice seeing you, Akaashi,” he says as way of farewell before slipping through the flapping doors, leaving Bokuto and Akaashi at the cash register. 

“How are you, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks, and Bokuto leans over the counter, lifts himself on his toes, brimming with everything that makes him himself, makes him Bokuto. His eyes gleam like full, bright moons—just as alluring, too. Akaashi feels pulled like a tide, insentient, the gravitational force of the moon especially strong on him tonight.

“Akaashi! Did you like my picture? The one I sent you with the cat?”

“Yes, it was quite fun. The framing of the photo, the subtle blur, suggested a moment of adventure despite the mundanity of the act of walking to work.” A stupid response, and Akaashi knows this, but the pull, an irrefutable force, a troublesome thing that has Akaashi grasping at the comfort of his source of stability, the part of his life that makes sense. Grammar rules and editing guidelines and literary analysis make sense. The way Bokuto makes him feel, not so much. 

Bokuto blinks, attempts to process, moves on. “I took a new path to work through some neighborhood because I stayed at the gym a little longer than usual, and I always come to work from home, but I didn’t have time to do that today. Except I got lost, actually, which is why I ended up in that neighborhood, and I showed up to work like thirty late and Komi yelled at me for a bit, but I got to see the cat! The cat was in that neighborhood! Do you think if I went back there I’d see him again, Akaashi? You can come with me! Maybe he’ll remember me! I can introduce you!”

“Do you know how to get back there?” Akaashi asks.

“Oh,” Bokuto says, deflating a little, “no, I don’t. Aw, Akaashi, I should have taken more pictures! I got a bunch, still, but, oh! I should have spent more time with him off camera. Man, well, at least I got pictures. Do you want to see, Akaashi? Most of them are blurry, though, but it’s okay! You can still tell what’s going on!” 

“Actually,” Akaashi starts, “before work gets busy, I was hoping to give you this…,” and he trails off, because this  _ what _ , he does not know. A gift, perhaps, but that would suggest explicit consideration for Bokuto, a conscious decision given extensive thought. Which, yes, Akaashi  _ did  _ think extensively, but Bokuto does not need to know this. Instead, he considers it as something more like a gesture, a subconscious reaction to the possibility of Bokuto getting hurt while playing volleyball. To say this out loud, though….

“Oh, yeah!” Bokuto says. “You got me something, huh? Is that what’s in the bag? You got me something from the corner store? I’ve been pretty hungry, actually. Is it food, Akaashi?”

“I…no, Bokuto-san. I’m afraid it isn’t. If you want me to, though, I can run over to the corner store real quick. Do you want something? I’ll go get it,” and Akaashi heads for the exit, already planning his trip, grateful for the extra time to formulate a coherent explanation for his gesture. 

Except he doesn’t get far, because Bokuto calls out to him, says, “Akaashi, where are you going? There’s a lot of food here! This is a pizza shop! I can grab garlic bread knots from the reject pile. You can have some, too, but don’t tell Komi I had more, okay? He already got mad at me for coming into work late, and then I went straight for the garlic knot reject pile that he was saving for himself. But Akaashi! What’s in the bag? Show me, show me!” 

So easy, Bokuto makes it so easy, and Akaashi turns around, hands him the bag without hesitation, a subconscious action, a gesture. “I know it’s kind of random…,” Akaashi says, suddenly sheepish, “but all this talk about volleyball and your going pro and—I want to support you in any way I can, if that’s okay.”

Bokuto peers into the bag, sets it down on the counter. He reaches in, pulls out a knee pad. “What’s this, Akaashi? Why are there so many?” 

“It’s just four pairs,” Akaashi tries and man, does it sound stupid. “Why, are they not the right size? Did I get them wrong? I could always exchange them if—”

“Akaashi, you’re the best!” Bokuto interrupts, face breaking out into a grin so wide his full moon eyes turn into crescents. “How did you know! Wow, Akaashi, it’s like you  _ know  _ me! But there’re so many! Why’d you get so many!” He flips the bag over, the contents spilling out onto the counter, and he reaches for them all, touches one after the other. “Akaashi, how much was this? I don’t even buy knee pads this nice for myself. Did you get them on sale? Were they giving them out at your job?” 

“Well, no, Bokuto-san. I work at a publishing company. They only ever give out books, sometimes shirts.” Reaching, Akaashi is reaching, latching onto any word that comes to mind, because he feels so  _ warm  _ and  _ good  _ and everything is so absurd, this moment, him buying 200 dollars worth of knee pads—the absurdity of it all, and he is basking in it. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says, “Akaashi, I think you’re my new favorite person. I want to buy things for you, too. Do you want anything, Akaashi? Do you want garlic knots? Those are free, but I’ll buy you something some other time when I’m not at work.”

“I don’t need anything, Bokuto-san, thank you. This was but a gesture. You don’t have to repay me.” Akaashi wants, yes, but nothing material. Everything material, he has. His apartment, the money in his bank account, the food in his fridge. To want beyond what he has, though, feels selfish, gluttonous. And what could he ask for from Bokuto besides what he has already given him? To see Bokuto happy should be fulfilling enough. 

_ Is _ fulfilling enough, he tells himself, because it  _ is _ , he is  _ good _ , and Akaashi is always good. Good is how he should be. 

“Except,” Akaashi says, a mistake, but he can’t help himself, because the perfection of this moment, the way everything feels  _ in place _ , Bokuto behind the counter and Akaashi in front of it, the pile of knee pads a bridge between them. “Except,” he says again, “maybe I’m the one who needs knee pads…with the way I keep falling for you.” 

Akaashi feels the buzz in his body so strong, a pounding in his chest and head, a rush in his ears, because this thought he had in mind since purchasing the knee pads, an intimate one, yes, but finally, he has given a voice to it. Relationships are about honesty and communication, right? Akaashi did as he would with Kenma and Oikawa and Kuroo. Always honest with each other, and he wants to be honest with Bokuto, too. Yet too bold, he was too bold, and Bokuto blinks at him, smile falling away, eyes full moons again, but no longer glowing, the illusion of luminescence turned back into stone. 

A held breath between them, a moment made longer by their shared silence, then, “Akaashi,” Bokuto says, voice grave, “Akaashi, are you okay? Are you hurt? Did you fall on the way here? We have a first aid kit in the back if you want me to get it. Let me see. Are you hurt?”

“What?” Akaashi says, and his chest constricts, squeezes away his breath. The rush in his ears returns, but not as a good feeling. He shakes his head, the buzz leaving his body, now a tingle in his fingers, and he clenches his hands into fists to prevent them from shaking. “No, Bokuto-san. I’m okay. I don’t fall literally. Only sometimes, but,” he stops, releases a quiet sigh through his nose. He should have known better. He has it all. He does. His apartment, his money, his job, his friends. The satisfaction he gets from seeing Bokuto smile, Bokuto happy. It is all enough. He should have known better. “No, forget it. It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, Bokuto-san. I’m scratch-free, see?” He holds up his arms, looks at his elbows, smooth and pale and bony and so  _ human _ , this is all so human, and for some reason this thought only makes his chest feel tighter. 

“Oh,” Bokuto says, then, “Oh, thank god, Akaashi! I was so worried for a moment there!” He laughs, the light back in his eyes. “Wow, Akaashi, I was really about to give these knee pads back to you! I really thought you had a problem with falling!” 

Akaashi laughs, a strained thing to his own ears, but Bokuto does not notice. “Sorry for worrying you. That was my mistake.” 

Bokuto laughs again. “Akaashi! Don’t mess with me like that! I was so worried!” He reaches over the counter, nudges Akaashi’s shoulder, and Akaashi takes a step back, electrified. 

The warmth that held Akaashi becomes a burning heat, the tingle still in his hands, and why does he feel this way? What made him think that was the right thing to do, to say? So stupid, everything is so stupid, and he should have known better. Always overdoing it with his words—he knows this—which is why he edits people’s writing instead of working on his own, but to think the one time he thought he had his words right….

“I think,” Akaashi says, “I should go now,” and he does, backs away toward the front door, still looking at Bokuto, and he wishes he weren’t wearing his glasses. “It was nice seeing you, Bokuto-san, but I’d hate to distract you while you’re at work, seeing how you have boxes to fold and all. I just wanted to stop by to give you something.” The something he now understands as unwarranted, maybe even unwanted. Except Bokuto appreciates the knee pads, wants them, too, so all along it must have been a gift, not a gesture. A gift, solely material, an act of kindness between friends. An exchange that should have started with a “Here you go” and ended with a “Thank you.” Too many words. Akaashi used too many words.

“Already?” Bokuto says with a pout, shoulders slumping with defeat. “You’re too good, Akaashi, you know that? Komi put you up to this, huh. It’s always about the pizza boxes with him! I can’t help that I don’t know how to fold them right.” Expressive as always, because this is a normal conversation. It always has been. 

“Komi didn’t put me up to anything, Bokuto-san. I just have things to do in preparation for work tomorrow. I’ll see you some other time, yeah?” and he pushes the weight of his body against the door, the bell above it jingling in response. A signal for arrivals and departures, sounding the same either way. 

“Can I call you after work?” Bokuto says after Akaashi. “I can call you after work, right? There’s still so much to talk about!”

“I’ll try my best to answer,” Akaashi says, door already closing behind him. A transparent thing, with clear glass panes, but perfect for separation. A window, like his glasses, forcing him to see. “Good bye, Bokuto-san.”

“Bye-bye, Akaashi!” Bokuto says, waving with both hands, his farewell filled with warmth and pleasure and everything Bokuto, but Akaashi is no longer looking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wait this looks short as hell now that it's uploaded man....oh well


	8. on a saturday in the city

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so that promise i made a few chapters ago about consistent updates was obviously a lie soz xx

Akaashi’s pain takes him out to a bookstore on a Saturday morning. Not the usual local one down the street from his apartment, but a big, two-story thing, some national chain that doesn’t need his patronage, which he doesn’t give. Instead, he spends hours wandering the shelves and reading first chapters of different books, because doing so in busy bookstores goes unnoticed. A busy bookstore on a busy street that Akaashi prefers not to frequent, but the atmosphere allows for easier invisibility, for something a little bit closer to nonexistence. Yet in the bookstore, Akaashi finds himself reaching for books he knows, books he helped publish, ones with acknowledgements that include his name. “A big thank you to my editor, Akaashi Keiji,” such comforting words to read, reassurance that Akaashi  _ does things _ , that he exists. His name, immortalized in printed text on innumerable copies of paper in innumerable copies of books. When his body stops existing, his name will continue to live on somewhere on some page of some book, and something about this makes him feel a little better. 

Not to mention, being credited as an editor, because Akaashi is not a writer, and the acknowledgements remind him of this. Akaashi fixes other people’s words, makes them the best versions of themselves, and that is the most he can do. To have to come up with his own sentences, formulate his own ideas to translate into prose, would be too much work, too much for Akaashi’s capabilities, or lack thereof. Which also explains why he sticks to speaking in familiar terms, in phrases meant for work when at work and for friends when with friends. Straying from the words expected of him has proven nothing but troublesome. His competency as an editor, his immortalization as an editor, demonstrate that his mechanical abilities will always serve him best.

In the Young Adult section, Akaashi finds the first book he helped copy edit, a corny elf romance story that almost made him quit his job, because how was he supposed to show this book to his mom upon its release when she had told all her friends about her son who works in  _ literature _ ? But to secure a position in this publishing company fresh out of college was nothing short of a miracle, so leaving his job to save his mother’s face would have hardly been appropriate. And Akaashi was just that, fresh out of college, not in any position to make claims about the literary merits of certain manuscripts. 

He pulls the book from the shelf, flips to the acknowledgements at the end. “Last but not least, I’d like to thank my editing team…,” and Akaashi’s name sits in the middle of a short list of editors he worked with, a novice team led by the previous head editor of the imprint. He closes the book, looks at the words “soon to be a major motion picture” printed at the bottom of the cover. Far from literary, he had thought when first reading the manuscript, but not all books have to be literary, and the one in his hands, soon to be a major motion picture, as a product of his help, of the commas he added. Akaashi works on the little details in the background, watches the people he assists flourish, and that is enough for him to feel satisfied. 

Akaashi accepts his role as a side character, a supporting character, someone necessary to push the plot along, perhaps appreciated by some, but in the end, it is someone else’s story and he lives in it. Trying to push beyond his position would suggest a desire to become a main character, which Akaashi does not want. Using words beyond the ones expected of him are out of character, but never has Akaashi felt the need, the desire, to be more than just Akaashi. Until Bokuto, that is, but Akaashi ignores this thought, busies himself with replacing the book that he helped become a major motion picture. 

Half an hour later and Akaashi leaves the bookstore before the pain he lost in the shelves can find him again. The collective sounds on the street create a murmur like shoreline waves, a steadily growing thing as morning turns into afternoon. Cherry blossom petals long since fallen litter the streets, stamped into the asphalt and concrete by urban feet, tourists and employees and school kids who come to life during weekends. Here, everyone is a side character. Akaashi thinks he will stay a while longer. 

Which is how he ends up in a cafe for something like brunch, an indulgence he already feels guilty about, but this entire trip, fueled by his guilt—to stop himself now would prove pointless, and he hasn’t spent any money yet, so this should be okay. The metro and bus rides were covered by his month-long transit pass, the bookstore acted as nothing more than a library. Sometimes, a matcha latte and a croissant sandwich are okay. 

Akaashi settles down at a table for one, a small round thing with a small round chair and he looks out the window, watches the day proceed without him. He wishes he had brought his laptop with him, even a hard copy of the manuscript he just printed, but getting too far ahead on his work leaves him with too many days of free time before deadlines, and Akaashi can’t handle free time, too antsy from the lack of things to get done.

Today’s little excursion does not count as free time, though, because Akaashi had reason to leave his apartment. Saturday mornings are for slow starts and lounging in bed and taking time to eat breakfast, but slow starts and lounging in bed and taking time to eat breakfast allow for a wandering mind, and Akaashi’s mind should no longer wander. Thinking results in straying from the expected, in moving beyond Work Akaashi and Friend Akaashi, in developing an internal monologue of sorts, and only main characters get to experience such luxuries, if one can even call them that. Everybody thinks, has thoughts about what to eat and when to do something and how to step from one side of the office to the other, but to include other people in one’s thoughts, to allow one’s thoughts to become more, become spoken words shared with others, that is a luxury, and Akaashi should not have it. 

Should not have it because he does it all wrong, never successfully translates his internal monologue into digestible words shared in conversation. Bokuto being but one example of someone with whom he failed to communicate his thoughts, but Akaashi should have known better than to expect his attempt with Bokuto to work after all the failed attempts before. 

These thoughts in themselves suggest something of an internal dialogue, so Akaashi stops, wills himself to stop, and picks up his sandwich, takes a bite of it. A side character eating his sandwich in a cafe in a busy part of the city where all the other side characters come to congregate. Side characters with side character lives and Akaashi fits in. An indulgent brunch of sorts in a cafe he usually wouldn’t frequent, but he fits in, so it is okay. 

A gaggle of school girls passes by outside the window, all geared up in sportsgarb and duffel bags, talking animatedly amongst each other about things Akaashi cannot hear. Based on the style of their uniforms, he guesses they just got out from playing basketball, and he thinks about when he, too, was younger and in high school, a teenage Akaashi who edited for the school newspaper and attended tutoring sessions every weekday until 7 p.m. Wholly committed to his studies, with little time on weekends to partake in sports matches and outings to the mall. Until college, when his roommate, Oikawa, dragged him along to all of his absurd antics, including house parties that Akaashi has done his best to push out of his memory. Seeking refuge in Kenma’s room became something of a habit on weekends, and Akaashi wishes he were in college again, when his greatest problem was Oikawa. 

But Akaashi stops reminiscing as quickly as he begins, because reflecting causes trouble, makes him less appreciative of the now, of all that he has gained. He left his apartment to escape such thoughts, and he will not let them catch up to him here.

  
  


Akaashi’s acceptance takes him on a walk through a nearby neighborhood, a reprieve from the ever-growing bustle of the city streets as the day progresses. He thinks he could maybe walk back to his apartment with the help of his phone GPS, but for now he wanders, the warm weather complimented by a breeze to make being outdoors feel pleasant. 

The asphalt tilts on a steady incline that Akaashi slowly follows, and his eyes flit back and forth between the houses lining the street, intrigued by the mesh of architectural styles compressed into this one little block. Judging from the cars that pass by and the people who come out of their houses to check the mail, Akaashi concludes this neighborhood to be one occupied by young adults fresh out of school, the only ones willing to live so close to a city hotspot for tourism and nightlife and gatherings of side characters. A street of constant change, impermanence, and Akaashi looks at a boy with crazy red hair walk out of his house in just his boxers, yawning as he takes out the trash. Someone Akaashi knows will move out of his house-share by the end of the year after finding a new job in a new place, his current living situation but a purgatory between school life and adulthood. 

To avoid staring, Akaashi distracts himself with the ground, watches the shadows of overhanging branches bounce in the breeze, patches of sunlight filtering between the movement, creating a light show of sorts. A pebble discarded from somebody’s shoe enters Akaashi’s line of vision, and he wonders where it originally came from. Perhaps a park or a school playground or the garden of a backyard, now lost on this street to get kicked around by unseeing feet and rolling car tires. A side character, like Akaashi, but Akaashi has never been kicked around, and for that he is grateful. 

“Yo,” someone says, and Akaashi keeps walking, their voice but a natural part of the scenery, a conversation started between neighbors, perhaps. Until the voice is closer and a hand touches Akaashi’s shoulder and he whips around to see Komi dressed in not a Pizza uniform, and his eyes widened, mind snapping back to reality. 

“Yo,” Komi says again. “I thought it was you, Akaashi! How you been? What’re you doing here?”

“Oh,” Akaashi says, “Komi-san. What a surprise to see you. I’m just taking a little afternoon stroll to pass time.” Seeing Komi outside of Pizza requires Akaashi to take a moment to recollect himself, because up close, Komi seems rather small, and have his eyebrows always looked something like Bokuto’s? Akaashi knows Komi has a life outside of Pizza, is more than his position as cashier, but this interaction feels something like seeing the CEO of the publishing company out at a restaurant with her family, exposing herself as a human with the most mundane of lives. 

“Isn’t this a bit far from where you live?” Komi says with a scratch of his head. “Not that I know where you live, but, you know, you give us your address and all to deliver your pizza.” 

“I was actually nearby to check out a bookstore, but the streets became a little too busy for my liking, which is why I ended up here. Do you live nearby, Komi-san?”

“Nah,” Komi says with a wave of his hand. “This place is wack, dude. Like at night? Good luck trying to sleep. It’s only this quiet during the day because everyone’s so hungover. I’m here to get something from Bokuto.” 

“Bokuto-san lives here?” Akaashi asks, his voice business casual. A breeze makes his hair tickle his ears, setting off a chain of little sparks in his body.

“You didn’t know? I thought that’s why you were here, too. Except, well, y’all aren’t on good terms, huh. I heard what happened in Pizza the other day, you know.” Komi’s voice lowers as if he were giving condolences at a funeral, and Akaashi’s acceptance leaves him with the next gust of wind. 

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Komi-san,” Akaashi says. “Bokuto-san and I are faring just fine.” Which they are, because their text conversations have proceeded as usual, and it’s only been a few days since that Tuesday, so it’s not like they’ve seen each other again. There’s no reason for anything to be wrong. 

“Really?” Komi says with something like genuine surprise. “With the way Bokuto’s been mumbling and grumbling about work, you’d think his dog just died, and he doesn’t have a dog, so that can’t be the reason for it. He’s so hard to work with when he’s down. I’ve had to fold all his pizza boxes for him, that bastard, but there’s no way he’ll ever get fired because our boss likes him too much. Wish  _ I _ got that sort of special treatment.” Komi reaches for his left shoe, pulls it off and flips it over, a pebble plinking out. “And I’ve noticed you haven’t ordered pizza from us in a minute. Is everything good on your end?”

Akaashi releases a breath of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Komi-san. Just thought I’d try expanding my palate beyond takeout pizza for a bit. Do you need my business, though? Because I—” 

Komi barks out a laugh. “No way, Akaashi. We’ll get by just fine without you. I know you’ve only been ordering from us to see Bokuto, anyway. Not that he knows this. You’re both kinda dense, you know? I see right through you! Like the knee pads, dude? You’re crazy!”

The tips of Akaashi’s ears feel warm, and he blames it on the sudden lack of breeze. “Is that what you think?” he manages. 

“I don’t think, man. I  _ know _ . God, when you pulled out that line,” and he pauses, stands up a little straighter, lowers his voice, “‘Maybe I’m the one who needs knee pads, with the way I keep falling for you.’ The scream I suppressed, dude! And when Bokuto didn’t get it, I thought I would die! It hurts so bad, man! I feel for you.” 

Akaashi stands, blinking, because the Work Komi he knows inside of Pizza, a different person from the Friend Komi out here on Bokuto’s street, and Akaashi realizes rather belatedly that other people have business personas, too. 

“Oh man, oh man,” Komi continues. “I’ve stopped watching TV, you know, because I get to witness drama in real time whenever I’m at work. Bokuto will not shut up about you ever, running his mouth so much that sometimes I want to wrangle him. Except lately he’s been so quiet I wish he’d be loud and obnoxious again.”

“Does,” Akaashi starts, considers his words, because everything he worked his way through earlier, about side characters and keeping his internal monologue to himself—to throw it all away like this. “Has Bokuto-san said why he’s been feeling so down?” The breeze hits Akaashi’s ears again, but the heat in their tips remain.

“Oh, he mumbles all the time, it’s like a fly constantly buzzing in my ear. Hell if I know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t take a genius to know why he’s acting like this. He fucked up so bad, Akaashi, asking if you were hurt like that? Thinking you were talking about  _ actually  _ falling? He’s always muttering some nonsense about falling and knee pads and being stupid, but never anything I could understand.” The way Komi speaks so freely, so openly to Akaashi, like a friend, makes Akaashi wonder just how long he’s been going to Pizza. To be able to jump into Friend Conversation between Friend Komi and Friend Akaashi so casually upon their first encounter outside of the workplace—their relationship, their understanding of each other, goes deeper than he had realized.

“It’s interesting you say that,” Akaashi says, “because Bokuto-san seems perfectly fine over text messages. I would have never guessed anything was wrong.” Half a lie, because things have been wrong with Akaashi, but he has worked on it, has figured it out. All the wrong existed on Akaashi’s end, and he was certain he had fixed it. 

“You’re such a funny guy, Akaashi. Has nobody ever lied to you over text? Have  _ you  _ never lied over text? It’s so easy to just type what you don’t mean and press send. Hell, I do it all the time! People can be so obnoxious, you know, but you gotta do what you can to appease them.” 

Akaashi nods, because yes, Komi is right, and Akaashi should have thought of that. Of course. The tone he establishes over emails and in texts may not mirror the state of his mind in the moment of message composition, but communication requires compromise on both ends. The translation of internal monologue to spoken words is more than just an Akaashi problem, and now he understands this. 

Except Akaashi doesn’t know if he wants to translate his internal monologue into spoken words, to try explaining himself to Bokuto again. The thought of reliving that moment, of having to regain the confidence to say such a thing, feels too far away, too impossible. The Akaashi then is not the Akaashi now, and if he had the chance to redo that moment, the Akaashi now would not do it at all. 

“You know what,” Komi says, and Akaashi looks up from his fingers he subconsciously pulls at, sees Komi in his band tee and black shorts, so casual and certain in his words, a little something like Bokuto. “Akaashi, wanna come with me? To Bokuto’s place? I’m sure it’s a crazy mess, but I think he’d be glad to see you, don’t you think? Like a surprise! It’ll be a surprise. Come with me!”

“Oh, I don’t know…,” Akaashi trails off. “If he’s been feeling bad, lately, I’d hate to catch him off guard.” Though Akaashi  _ would  _ like to help Bokuto fix his bad, but how to accomplish that, he does not know.

“Nah,” Komi says, gives Akaashi a little hit on the back, an act of reassurance that reminds Akaashi of Kuroo. “Bokuto likes surprises. He doesn’t even know I’m coming over, actually. Who knows if he’s even there!” And Komi laughs, a ridiculous thing that almost makes Akaashi smile, makes him want to be friends with Komi. 

Akaashi knows he’s a side character, but side characters can have friends, too. He  _ has  _ friends already, a little conglomerate of side characters, perhaps, but Akaashi knows his friends have more value than that. Akaashi’s role as a side character is one of support, and including Komi in his line of those he supports doesn’t sound like such a bad thing.

“You’re a very respectable person, Komi-san,” Akaashi says. “I think I will go with you, if only to see how you react when we find out Bokuto is not home.” 

“Is that so?” Komi says with a raise of his brows. “I hate to disappoint, Akaashi, but even if Bokuto’s not there, I  _ will _ go digging in his room until I find what I need. Maybe you’ll find something you need, too,” and he turns around to walk in the direction from where Akaashi came, kicking the pebble that came from his shoe with the motion. 

Akaashi, following after Komi, feels like he should kick the pebble, too, but he doesn’t, instead making a conscious effort to step around it. Though a few kicks  _ would _ take the pebble a little closer toward where it belongs….

So Akaashi stops, turns back to the pebble, gives it something of a good kick—but nothing too obvious for Komi to notice—before trailing after Komi once again, satisfied with his decision to help the pebble find its way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idek what to say about this just know i'm pantsing the shit out of this story and have no idea where it's going either
> 
> anyway hmu on twitter @1inhardt i'm out


	9. on the same saturday in the same city

Bokuto lives in a two story house with a Pizza uniform yellow door that doesn’t match the building’s age, a recent installment after someone barrelled through the previous door and left a giant crack, according to Komi. Otherwise, the ground floor looks like the skeletal remains of a colonial era home, with additions added inside and on top over the years. An architectural disaster, really, but suitable for storing a horde of young men, Akaashi thinks. 

When Komi opens the door without knocking, Akaashi hardly feels surprised, reminded of his days living in dorms where all the boys came in and out of each other’s rooms as if they were their own. Something Oikawa did, too, which bothered Akaashi to no end, though without allowing public access to their room, he probably wouldn’t have made friends….

“Yo,” Komi says into the house, kicking off his shoes and placing them on the shoe rack against the left wall of the entrance. Akaashi follows suit, eyes lingering on the rows of shoes so neatly arranged, and he wonders about the state of the rest of the house. They walk through a hallway and end up at the foot of a staircase framed by a kitchen to the right and a living room to the left. Matching furnishing and updated appliances enliven the place, an open chip bag lying on the kitchen countertop and a blanket bunched up on the couch adding touches of human to each room. 

“Yo,” Komi says again, this time into the living room, where a boy with a buzzcut and angry eyes sits on the floor in front of the TV, playing video games. “Is Bokuto in?” 

“Hell if I know,” the boy responds, eyes trained on the TV. “Might’ve gone to the corner store with Nishinoya—or was that Lev he went with?” He shrugs. “My money’s on the gym.” 

“Useless, as always,” Komi says, to which the boy offers a grunt, and Komi proceeds up the stairs, motioning for Akaashi to follow. 

On the landing, the house extends into two hallways, and Komi opts for the left one, all doors closed except for one leading into a bathroom. Toiletries fill colorful plastic cups crammed side-by-side to fit on the small bathroom counter, and a dampness emanates from the bathtub, its use made evident by the sopping bath mat that sits in front of it. 

“It’s gross in here, honestly,” Komi says upon noticing Akaashi’s wandering eyes. “The only reason this house looks okay is because a neat freak lives here and reorganizes everything. There’s only so much you can do to hide the smell of a bunch of dudes, though.”

Akaashi nods, taking one last look at the cups before continuing down the hallway, and he wonders if the grey one belongs to Bokuto. When Akaashi lived in a dorm and had to use communal bathrooms, he, too, would keep his toothbrush and toothpaste in a cup he took with him as needed. Except his cup was white, a semi-transparent plastic that matched his shower caddy, both thrown out once dorm life ended, too contaminated by communal germs to be of use outside of such a setting. 

“Bokuto,” Komi says, knocking on a door halfway down the hall. No response, which he takes as his cue to open the door and invite himself in, and Akaashi lingers a step outside of the room, feeling like a foreigner entering an unfamiliar place of worship. 

From where he stands, the room appears exceedingly boyish, volleyball posters stapled to the walls, a gaming laptop and monitor occupying the whole of a desktop. A basket of clean laundry sits next to a half-made bed, and a dresser drawer gapes open, left forgotten in a rush. 

“Don’t be shy,” Komi says while closing the drawer. “This isn’t holy terrain. Bokuto’s human, you know. He won’t mind you being in here.”

Which Akaashi knows, because of course Bokuto wouldn’t mind. If anything, he’d invite the whole house in to check out the posters he placed with great consideration on the walls. He probably games in his room with his housemates all the time. One extra guest for a few minutes wouldn’t taint the room of its sanctuary.

So Akaashi steps in and is met with the smell of air freshener and an undertone of sweat, though the open window allows in a cool current of outdoor air.  _ Boyish _ , Akaashi thinks, but he can tell by the cleanliness of the floor and the attempts at organization that Bokuto wants to be neat, tries to be neat. 

Subconsciously, Akaashi gravitates toward the laundry basket, fingers itching to fold the clothes, because, to think, all the wrinkles that have already formed…but instead, he reaches for the top corner of the comforter on the bed, pulls it a little to stretch the fabric taut. “How very… Bokuto,” he says as way of observation, turning away from the bed to look at the rest of the room. A plush owl phone charm dangles from the closet door handle, and a row of manga knocked over like dominos line the floor against the foot of the bed. He recognizes one of the titles as something from the manga imprint under the publishing company that employs him, a superhero story of sorts soon to be animated. Perhaps they can watch it together once it comes out. 

“So,” Akaashi says when he notices Komi just standing, on his phone as if he were in his own room, “what exactly are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.”

“Oh.” Komi looks up from his phone, shoves it into his pocket, suddenly aware of his surroundings. He runs a hand over his head, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not here to find anything. I just needed an excuse to get you to come with me into the house, and then into Bokuto’s room.” He offers something like a smile as he makes his way toward the door, grabbing the door handle. 

Akaashi, not quite understanding, furrows his brows, inches his way toward Komi, who responds by exiting the room, bringing the door closer to closed with him. “I’m not sure I understand, Komi-san. If you’re not here to retrieve something from Bokuto-san, are you stopping by to spend time with him?”

“Nah,” Komi says, “I live here, dude. If you need me, I’ll be a couple rooms over,” and he closes the door before Akaashi can get a word in, leaving him alone in Bokuto’s room.

Still recovering from the sudden turn of events, Akaashi remains stationary and dazed, rubbing his eyes as if waking from a dream. To be alone in Bokuto’s room feels like a violation, like trespassing, and once Akaashi has recomposed himself, he thinks, I should leave. A thought followed by a brisk walk toward the door, because what is he doing in this unknown house with unknown people? Without Komi beside him, he  _ is  _ a trespasser, a stranger in the wrong neighborhood, in the wrong house. Images of being arrested flash through Akaashi’s mind, the strobe of cop car lights, the blare of a megaphone announcing his crime to the whole block. And on the front steps of the house would be Bokuto, watching Akaashi get handcuffed and escorted away from this place where he does not belong. 

An absolute worst case scenario and very unlikely to happen, but Akaashi worries, nonetheless, because he is a head editor with a penthouse and a stable mind and life and  _ he does not belong _ . All his day’s effort spent reestablishing his stability will be all for naught should he stay in this house, this room, so leaving proves the only viable course of action. A surprise, Komi had said, which works well for Akaashi, as a surprise that never happens does not disappoint. Akaashi nods to himself as he opens the door and gently closes it behind him, the sanctuary resealed and undisturbed. 

In the hallway, Akaashi’s footsteps creak on floorboards that could use a polishing and maybe even a complete overhaul. A sound like pilfering through the kitchen past midnight to his ears, but after a ten second pause and no response to his loudness, he proceeds, albeit with a softer step. Quietly, he will leave quietly, continue on his stroll through the unknown neighborhood, and eventually make his way home. Maybe tomorrow he will invite his friends over to his apartment for a moment of reprieve, to get his life back to how it was and should be. They will order takeout—Chinese, he decides—and Oikawa will be sent to the corner store to buy beer and Akaashi will drink one bottle, if only to satisfy his friends. 

A loud thud from below interrupts Akaashi’s thoughts, making him halt at the top of the staircase, his feet half-hanging over the edge of the first step. “I’m home!” someone calls into the house, their voice loud enough to echo through the upper floor, and _ Oh, god _ , Akaashi thinks,  _ it’s Bokuto _ . 

“Anybody here?” Bokuto says. “I bought donuts! Like, three dozen of them! They were having a sale at the bakery! Hello? I’m home!”

“Bro,” someone yells back, presumably the boy in the living room, “can you stop doing that? We just got the door replaced.” 

“Sorry!” Bokuto says, slamming the door shut. “Hey, Tanaka, you want a donut? I have three dozen of them!” and the conversation proceeds just as loudly but Akaashi is no longer listening because  _ Bokuto _ , in this house, and so is he, standing at the top of the stairs with no way out. 

The window, his mind supplies, but which window? And how would he get down? Akaashi isn’t weak or unathletic, but to jump from a second story window—he has more sense than that. Perhaps Komi could help, but no, he was the one who tricked Akaashi into coming here in the first place. Then again, when Bokuto starts talking to someone, he  _ talks _ to them, so Akaashi could probably sneak out the front door just fine, as long as he gets past the living room without being spotted. 

A fine plan, Akaashi reassures himself, because really, with three dozen donuts and a housemate to occupy him, Bokuto should have no reason to suspect Akaashi’s presence in the house. So he takes a deep breath and starts his descent. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can get home and end this day. 

“Komi!” Bokuto calls. “Komi, I know you’re home! Do you hear me? I have donuts! Come down here!” 

Akaashi pretends to ignore Bokuto’s voice, focuses on taking one step at a time, each one a muted thump against the stairs. One, two, three steps, and a held breath as he listens for the sound of Bokuto’s feet shuffling around on the ground level. Except they’re no longer shuffling, more like a brisk slap of slippers against wood, and they’re coming closer, a crescendo that heightens Akaashi’s fear, speeds up his heartbeat, the rush of his blood through his veins. 

“Komi!” Bokuto hollers again, his voice echoing up from the foot of the stairs, and Akaashi retreats back into the second story hallway, his muscles and lungs straining against his efforts to be as quiet and quick as possible. Any noise he makes gets lost in the power of Bokuto’s stomps as he bounds up the stairs, just a shadow away from Akaashi, who shuts himself into the bathroom as a last-ditch effort to—to do what, he does not know. 

With his back against the bathroom door, Akaashi holds his breath and listens as Bokuto skips by, each of his steps a tremble through the groaning floor. 

“Komi,” Bokuto draws out, seemingly bursting into Komi’s room without knocking. An incoherent complaint from Komi followed by a slam of the door and Akaashi finally relaxes as much as one can in a house that isn’t theirs. Despite the muffle of the voices a couple rooms away reminding Akaashi of Bokuto’s proximity, he takes a moment to recompose himself, become himself again, which proves impossible, because Akaashi would never hide in a bathroom to avoid a boy. Not even in high school would Akaashi have hidden in a bathroom to avoid a boy. So why is he doing it now?

He looks at the bathroom, the counter with its many cups and the bath mat now mostly dry, and he blinks, caught somewhere between reality and the surrealness of it all. To trap oneself in a bathroom belonging to strangers for such a trivial reason as hiding from what? A friend? Someone with whom a disagreement occurred? 

A crush, Akaashi’s brain supplements, and he wills the thought away with a bite of his bottom lip. Akaashi is a head editor with a penthouse and a stable mind and life, and crushes are for middle schoolers and Oikawa and romance tropes Akaashi removes from manuscripts he edits. His decision to book it to the bathroom was but one made for the purpose of avoiding confrontation, of keeping Bokuto unaware and happy with his donuts and Tanaka and Komi. 

Akaashi thinks, preparing himself for his escape, which he will begin after the countdown of five, four, three—

The bathroom door opens before Akaashi feels ready enough to go, but it’s not his hand that turns the knob or pushes the door with such great force that Akaashi finds himself wedged between wall and door, his glasses jamming into the bridge of his nose with the movement. A crack resounds like a gong in his ears, maybe from his glasses or the cartilage in his nose or his head that hits the wall at whiplash speed, and he thinks, Who opens a door like this? 

Bokuto strides into the bathroom in full Bokuto fashion, unaware of the consequences of his actions, because the walls of this house always fight his slamming, both from the doors he opens and his own body. “Is anyone in here?” he says, and when he receives no answer, he locks himself into the room, only registering Akaashi’s presence after the door is fully closed and he finds himself a hair’s breadth away from Akaashi, who looks something like a fly that has just been smacked by a fly swatter. 

“Akaashi!” Bokuto exclaims. “Akaashi, is that you? What are you doing in here?” His eyes widen like spotlights, and Akaashi is trapped in them, completely exposed in all his sneaking, shameful, un-Akaashi glory.

“Um,” Akaashi says, readjusting his glasses, but his vision remains blurry, fragmented, and Bokuto looks like a puzzle poorly put together. The pain in his nose and at the back of his head throbs with every beat of his pulse, his disorientation preventing him from remembering his plan, why he had one in the first place. Everything hurts more than it should, but in a lingering sort of way, the kind of hurt that won’t reach its full potential until hours after it has been forgotten. 

“Akaashi, your glasses are broken! And your nose is bleeding! What are you doing in here? Did you get into an accident on your way over? Except, how did you know where I live? I’m so confused, actually. Akaashi, are you okay? I’m so confused! Should I get Komi—”

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says. “I’m okay. Komi invited me over. I was just using the bathroom.” He lets out an exhausted breath, reaching under his glasses to rub his eyes. His palms touch something wet in the process, and when he pulls his hands away, he realizes Bokuto is right. His nose is bleeding. 

A moment passes, Akaashi staring at Bokuto, Bokuto staring at Akaashi, until finally Bokuto says, “Oh!” and walks in the direction of the shower, removes a few squares of toilet paper from the roll hanging beside the toilet. He moves to dab at Akaashi’s bloody nose, but Akaashi shies away instinctively. 

“I,” Akaashi starts, then, “Sorry. I can take care of it myself. No need for you to get my blood all over your hands.” 

Bokuto nods and hands Akaashi the folds of toilet paper. “Maybe you want to rinse your face off first? You kind of smeared blood all over your chin.” 

“That’s probably a good idea,” Akaashi says, shutting down every thought threatening to hyperfocus on the mess that is his face, trying to move around Bokuto to get to the sink. Bokuto responds by backing against the door, mere inches from the counter, and Akaashi turns on the faucet, much too aware of Bokuto’s proximity. Couldn’t he have gone to sit on the toilet or something? Akaashi does his best to avoid eye contact through the mirror as he checks for any remaining blood stains reddening his cheeks. He takes off his glasses, sets them on the counter, his vision fogging over as if he were underwater. Before more blood can leak out of his nose, he shoves wads of toilet paper into his nostrils. Ridiculous.

“All better,” he says, and it sounds stupid, nasaly, a half-hearted attempt at easing the tension between them. The tissue tickles his upper lip, and he suppressed the urge to sneeze. 

Akaashi remains facing the mirror, Bokuto still by the door, and they don’t speak, the sound of toilet water trickling through the pipes punctuating the silence. 

A moment, then, “Akaashi?” Bokuto says, and Akaashi looks at him through the mirror. Something like innocence paints his face, the round of his eyes complimenting the round of his face, which isn’t really round, but looks that way through Akaashi’s underwater eyes. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san.”

“Could you maybe wait in the hall for a minute? I need to pee.” 

“Oh,” He scrambles to grab his glasses and misses. “Sorry, hold on a sec,” he says, except a second becomes multiple, and Bokuto ends up picking up his glasses for him.

“Don’t go anywhere?” Bokuto says while handing Akaashi his glasses, but the statement comes out more like a question, a plea.

Akaashi nods, resigned to his fate for the rest of the day. “I’ll be right outside the door, Bokuto-san.”

  
  


The day escaped Akaashi during his own attempted escape from the house-share, its retreating form visible as a sunset from the shingled roof outside of Bokuto’s bedroom window. Akaashi sits stiffly on the slanted tiles with his knees pulled to his chest, a box of donuts and cans of soda to his right, separating him from Bokuto, who leans back on his hands, legs sprawled out before him. To Akaashi’s left, folded into a napkin, lie the two wads of toilet paper that had previously been wedged up his nostrils. 

“I like to sit out here a lot,” Bokuto says, “to watch the sunset or the people pass by on the street below me. Sometimes, I pretend I’m a bird on a wire, barely aware of my own existence, just taking in the world around me. But I always get so lost in my bird brain that I don’t even realize how many hours have passed until Komi comes looking for me because it’s my turn to take out the trash. Which, why is it always my turn to take out the trash?” He gasps. “Akaashi! I think I’m being used! I’m the house trash man!” 

“At least you’re being useful,” Akaashi offers. “Nobody can ever blame you for not doing your part around the house.” 

“Except they always do!” Bokuto exclaims. “‘Bokuto, wash the bath mat,’ ‘Bokuto, vacuum the living room,’ ‘Bokuto, check the mail.’ I’m the trash man! The bath mat man, the vacuum man, the mail man! And if I tell them to do it, it’s ‘You have to learn how to do other things. Not everything in life is volleyball, Bokuto.’” His voice takes on a mocking tone Akaashi assumes is supposed to resemble Komi’s, and Akaashi finds himself suppressing a huff of laughter. As a victim of his own friends’ constant bullying, Akaashi understands Bokuto’s dismay, endeared by his sudden realization. 

“Training for when you live on your own, like training for volleyball,” Akaashi says. 

“I hope I never have to live on my own,” Bokuto says, looking down at his lap. “How lonely would that be?”

“It’s alright,” Akaashi says, because it is. He likes having his own space, likes having the privilege to invite people in and out as he pleases. If he needs company, he can request it, and if he wants to go out, he doesn’t have to let anyone know or ask for permission. 

“But what if something happens?” Bokuto ponders. “What if you slip and hit your head on the corner of the kitchen counter? Nobody will be there to help you! That’s so sad!” 

“Then don’t fall,” Akaashi shrugs. 

“Easy for you to say,” Bokuto mumbles. “Perfect Akaashi with your perfect job and perfect apartment.” He picks up a leaf wedged beneath one of the roof tiles, crumples it up and throws it off the roof.

“That’s not true,” Akaashi says, fingers twitching to fidget. “I mean, look at me. I just ran into a wall. I broke my glasses. My nose only just stopped bleeding after half an hour.”

“No, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, his voice laced with defeat, somber and a bit dramatic. “ _ I  _ broke your glasses.  _ I  _ shoved you into a wall. Everybody always tells me to be more gentle, to stop slamming doors and jumping around, but I can’t help it. It’s not like I’m  _ trying  _ to be like this,” and he gestures at himself with a wave of his arms, “but my job is slamming and jumping. I slam and jump for a living, Akaashi. It’s what I know how to do best, but all it does is hurt people—hurt you—when I’m off the court.” He pulls his knees to his chest, burying his chin in the fold of his arms, and Akaashi watches his hair slouch with him, moving as if in accordance with his emotions. 

Bokuto’s human, Komi had said, but Akaashi senses a little something more in the glow of his eyes, the emotions of his hair, as if every part of him were alive, fueled by the overwhelming power that is Bokuto.

“You’ve never hurt me,” Akaashi assures him. “Today was an accident. It’s not like you knew I’d be standing behind the bathroom door in your house. And minimal damage occurred, anyway. I have a spare pair of glasses at home, and my nosebleed was temporary.” The subtle pounding in the back of his head briefly intensifies as if to remind him of its presence, but he doesn’t worry, the pain nothing close to concussive.

Bokuto adamantly shakes his head, eyes verging on wild as he looks at Akaashi. “Akaashi, no, don’t lie to me. I hurt you just the other day.” When Akaashi noticeably fails to recall any such injury from occurring, he continues. “At Pizza? With the knee pads? Falling?”

Akaashi blanches. “Oh, right,” he says. “That.” Maybe he  _ does  _ have a concussion. And to think, just a couple minutes ago he was telling Bokuto not to fall. “Don’t fall,” he said, like it’s just  _ that  _ easy. Oh, how stupid he feels.

“At first I didn’t understand,” Bokuto says, and Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut, still not ready for this conversation, “because all I know how to do is slam and jump. I don’t need to think to do those things. And when you said that thing about falling—”

“Bokuto-san, please,” Akaashi says, fingers wringing together, his face flush with an unfamiliar feeling. His words bubble up from his throat before he can stop them. “Could we maybe pretend I never said anything about falling? I was trying to be metaphorical because my brain got ahead of me and it obviously didn’t work. Just think of what happened as a gift delivery—an awkward one. It’s nice of you to want to have this conversation, and I appreciate your efforts at communication, but I don’t think I can do it. I’m sorry.” He looks down at his hands, knuckles white from incessant clenching. The heat of embarrassment replaces the unfamiliar feeling that had flushed his face, because Akaashi thought he was better than this, better than avoiding uncomfortable exchanges, which he always deals with at work. Sending rejection emails and questions about poor writing choices hardly faze him. This should be no different, but it  _ is _ , it is  _ so  _ different, feels so much worse, to acknowledge his wrongdoings, his mistakes. And that’s just it: never has he had to face his mistakes, look them straight in the eye. Always, he points out everybody else’s mistakes, because that’s his job. He fixes other people’s mistakes. He doesn’t know how to fix his. 

“But you don’t have to do anything,” Bokuto says. “I’m the one who has to explain myself.” He turns his body to face Akaashi, eyes like lasers trying to get his attention, to get him to look, and he does, he does look at Bokuto, and it hurts, the sincerity in his eyes so blatant and prying. 

The cracks in Akaashi’s glasses feel like a blessing, obscuring Bokuto’s appearance enough to make this moment feel like a dream, like looking through the haze of his brain at a forgotten memory. 

Except this blessing ends up being one-sided, because Bokuto says, “Akaashi, please take off your glasses. Your eyes look funny and I can’t talk about this while you have bug eyes.”

Were it not for Bokuto leaning over and removing Akaashi’s glasses before he could register Bokuto’s words, he would have lost himself to manic laughter from the sheer embarrassment of it all. Instead, his breath catches in his throat, and when his glasses come off his face, Bokuto appears so clear in front of him, a mirage turned reality.

“Um,” Akaashi manages, but Bokuto shakes his head, and he stops, waits.

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto says, still so close, and no matter where Akaashi tries to look, he can’t get away. “I act on instinct instead of thought, so when you said you were falling for me, I thought you meant, like,  _ falling. _ ” He breathes out a laugh, a derogatory thing aimed at himself. “And even if I did understand, you’re the smartest person I know. Why would you fall for me?” 

Akaashi feels nothing but discomfort in this moment, because hearing Bokuto speak so seriously, voice strained and concentrating—everything about him, too out of character. He doesn’t want to be responsible for this change. 

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says, shifting away from Bokuto just the slightest amount, though judging by the way he frowns, he noticed. “Bokuto-san, you don’t need to take this so seriously. In fact, you shouldn’t take it seriously. I clearly don’t have a proper grasp on my emotions. It would be unfair of me to drag you down with me in my attempt to figure things out.” 

“But don’t you have it all figured out?” Bokuto says, sitting back again. “Isn’t that why you said what you said? You  _ like  _ me, Akaashi. You’re not the first person, you know. It always takes me a moment, but I figure it out eventually.” 

“Not helping,” Akaashi groans, running a hand down his face. He flinches at the tenderness of his nose, but he thinks he deserves it, this mild pain, because how dumb can he be? To fall for someone like Bokuto, who undoubtedly has a ton of suitors, which—how pompous of Akaashi to call himself a suitor! He nudges his nose again, accepts the pain. 

A minute or so passes in silence, Akaashi’s breathing loud to his ears. He focuses on the whir of the insects, the buzz of wired electricity. 

“‘Kaashi?” Bokuto says. 

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi mutters from behind his hands. When he doesn’t receive a response, he looks up, blinks to refocus his vision. The darkness makes it more difficult to see, the sun having long since set. In the glow of the streetlamps and the shine of the moon, the blur of Bokuto’s edges make him a mirage again, something out of a dream. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “I like you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi. thank you for reading


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